The Making of The Beautiful

Page 1 of 125


THE MAKING 

of the 

BEAUTIFUL 

The Life Story of 

ANNIE JOHNSON FLINT 

By Rowland V. Bingham, D.D. 

Editor The Evangelical Christian 

This Literature Provided by: 

CARRY THE LIGHT 

Christian Classic Resources 

www.CarryTheLight.io 

WaterBooks 

This publication is offered for educational purposes only. Some Images are protected by 

copyright. Distribution may be made without any purpose of commercial advantage. 

Page 

3 of 125

CONTENT 

A Foreword 5 

The Foregleam… 7 

"The Making of the Beautiful” 8 

A Prose Picture of a Poet 11 

The Life in Allegory 12 

A Christmas Eve Baby 19 

School Days 22 

Characteristics 30 

Mixing the Bitter and Sweet 32 

Pressed Into Poetry and Print 35 

The Poetical Theologian 43 

Songs of Comfort 53 

Sunset and Eventide 61 

Poems by Annie Johnson Flint 68 

Page 


A Foreword 

If you ever had the privilege of calling upon Annie Johnson Flint, you 

have not forgotten her hands. Anyone who ever saw them, and who had 

read any of her poems in manuscript, must have marveled at the clear 

and beautiful writing which her painfully distorted hands were able to 

produce. 

Those instruments of expression which most of us can use so freely, 

were carefully trained to do their manual work with fine restraint and 

regularity, and perfect legibility. 

But this ability to use her physical disabilities far more blessedly than 

so many of us use our abilities, was seen typically. but not chiefly in 

such control. It was revealed far more deeply than that in the 

outpouring of a courageous, chastened, and God-given spirit of gladhearted 

service in the name of the Lord whom she loved, and by whose 

grace her gifts were brought to such abundant fruition. 

Annie Johnson Flint's poems were not simply the unskilled utterances 

of a devout spirit. They disclose by their gracious art, the hand of the 

true poet who knows that religious verse-writing at its best requires not 

only a consecrated insight, but lest the message be halted and perhaps 

lost, a due regard for the most exacting canons in the use of rich and 

fitting words, musical rhythm, and correct verse forms. Hard work very 

often lies back of seemingly spontaneous utterances in which these 

principles of verse writing are followed. 

Page 


Miss Flint was one of the few writers of religious poems in whose work 

one recognizes in the very ease of it, the hand of the careful artist. 

There was no distortion in that inward instrument of consecrated 

expression. 

One day a visitor stepped from Miss Flint's sitting room· into the 

sleeping room to secure a certain reprint of a poem for Miss Flint, who 

was seated in her wheeled chair. A glance at the bed in that room was 

revealing. Nine soft pillows were carefully arranged on the bed for use 

in protecting the exquisitely sensitive, pain-smitten body from the 

normal contact of the bed-clothing, so distressing it was for her to 

recline in the hope of rest at night. 

And it was this most sensitive sufferer who, out of her keen experiences 

of pain, prepared so many poem pillows for the weary, the suffering, 

the discouraged in body, mind and spirit. The message of her life is 

found in just such episodes, and just such lovely, heartening, deeply 

spiritual poems as are included in this booklet. Here is an exhibit of 

what God can do with a life so bound and yet so gloriously free, in a 

ministry rarely granted to any dweller in our needy world. 

PHILIP E. HOWARD. 

President of 'The Sunday School 'Times Company, 

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

Page 


The Foregleam… 

This life at best would have been garbed in drab or grey but for the 

touch of God. Its well-nigh forty years spent as a "shut-in" within the 

compass of four walls, with the occasional break of an excursion in 

an invalid chair, would only have attained to one color. And 

any expression of sound would have been in monotone. In one of her 

poems she did liken herself to the fern in the flower kingdom, 

intended with its living green to brighten the shade of the forest. But 

the highest point her poetic genius could have reached in this realm, 

would have bestowed on her only a crown of “maidenhair." 

But the touch of the Almighty did something more than that for this 

one : even more than realize the goal of her water-lily song 

which pictures "The Soul" as climbing from the mud and ooze of the 

underworld until its white and yellow burst into bloom on the 

water's brim. 

We think her life-story is best introduced, as it was surely 

characterized, by her lovely poem, "The Making of the Beautiful", for 

God took this life in its colorless shade and sorrow, and touched it 

with all the hues of the rainbow. And then He made its monotony 

burst into tones whose harmonies have blessed the world in their 

blending of the highest and deepest notes of human experience; 

"The Making of the Beautiful" gives her early impressions and 

response to the touch of the Master Hand. 

Page 


"The Making of the Beautiful” 

Meadow and vale and mountain, 

Ocean and lake and wood,- 

God looked on the fruit of His labor 

And saw that His work was good; 

And yet was there something lacking 

In the world that He had made, 

Something to brighten the greenness, 

Something to lighten the shade.· 

He took a shred of the rainbow, 

A bit of the sunshine's gold, 

The colors of all the jewels 

The mines of earth enfold, 

A piece of the mist of evening 

With the sunset woven through, 

A scrap of the sky at noonday, 

A clear, unclouded blue; 

Of these He fashioned the flowers, 

And some were red, like the rose, 

And some were a lovely azure, 

And some were pale as the snows; 

Some, shaped like a fairy chalice 

The perfumed honey to hold, 

And some were stars of silver, 

And some were flakes of gold. 

Page 


They flashed in the gloom' of the forests, 

They clung to the boughs of the trees, 

They hid in the grass of the meadows, 

They drifted away on the breeze, 

They fell in the clefts of the canyons 

And high on the mountains bare, 

Where never an eye should see them 

Save His Who had made them fair. 

But still there was something wanting, 

His labor was not yet done; 

lie gathered more of the colors 

Of rainbow and sky and sun, 

And now unto these He added 

The music of sea and land, 

The tune of the rippling river, 

The splash of the waves on the sand, 

The raindrops' lilting measure, 

The pine tree's crooning sigh, 

The aspen's lisping murmur, 

The wind's low lullaby, 

Faint fluting of angel voices 

From heavenly courts afar, 

And the softest, dreamiest echoes 

Of the song of the morning star. 

Then deftly His fingers molded 

The strong and the delicate things 

Instinct with the joy and the beauty 

Of song and of soaring wings; 

Page 


Nightingale, heron and seagull, 

Bobolink, lark-and then, · 

I think that He smiled a little 

As He tilted the tail of the wren, 

As He made the owl's face solemn 

And twisted the blue jay's crest, 

As He bent the beak of the parrot 

And smoothed the oriole's vest, 

As He burnished the crow's jet plumage 

And the robin's breast of red; 

"In the cold of the northern springtime 

The children will love it," He said. 

So some were quaint and cunning, 

And some were only fail-, 

And some He gave a song to, 

And lo, the birds of the air. 

And the snippets of things left over, 

He tossed out under the skies, 

Where, falling, fluttering, flying, 

Behold, they were butterflies! 

Page 


A Prose Picture of a Poet 

~ WRITTEN BY HERSELF 

Only one prose production of Annie Johnson Flint is extant. Just 

once she turned from the poet's muse, and it is not strange that even 

then instead of writing common prose her pen ran from poetry to 

allegory. 

Outside of Bunyan's immortal work, we wonder whether a sweeter 

picture in allegorical form has ever been drawn. It presents in a 

fascinating manner 

a spiritual interpretation of 

her own life, and breathes 

the same air of faith and love, 

and confidence in the 

guidance and goodness of 

God that marked all 

she wrote. 

It was found among her 

papers in her own 

handwriting, with 

corrections as she had made 

them, ere laying down her 

pen. Before presenting her 

life story it makes a fitting 

autobiography in allegory 

of Annie Johnson Flint. 

Page 


The Life in Allegory 

“THAT I MIGHT BE LIKE UNTO HIM” 

And it came to pass, as I travelled along the Highway of Life, that I saw 

in the distance, far ahead, a mountain, and on it One standing, upon 

whose face rested a divine compassion for the grief of the world. 

His raiment was white and glittering, and in His hand was a cross. And 

He called unto the sons of men, saying "Come! Come! Who will take up 

his cross and follow me, that he may be like unto me, and that I may seat 

him at my right hand and share with him things glorious and beautiful 

beyond the dreams of earth and the imaginings of men?” 

And I said. "What is my cross, that I may take it up?” 

And a Voice answered, "There are many crosses, and thine shall be 

given thee in good time.” 

And I said, "What will bring me near to Thee and make me most like 

Thee?” 

And the Voice replied, "There are many angels with whom thou canst 

walk; but see that they lead thee only toward me, and never away from 

me, for some there be that will cause thee to forget me.” 

And I said, "What angel shall be given me?”And I felt a hand laid upon 

Page 


mine, and saw beside me one with a smiling face, who said, "Walk with 

me: I am the Angel of Joy,” 

Then all my life grew bright. and wealth was mine, and many pleasures, 

and friends crowded around me, and Love crowned me, and I knew no 

care. 

But suddenly I heard the Voice, and it sounded faint and far, off, and it 

said, "Alas! Thou art not coming toward me." And I fell upon my knees, 

crying, " Oh, forgive me that I could forget Thee. Take away the angel, 

since he leads me not unto Thee.” 

Then the world grew dark and I heard a low voice beside me saying, 

"Come with me: I am the Angel of Sorrow.” 

Then he took my hand in his, and I went with him, weeping. But now 

there were no friends around me, and pleasure palled upon me, and my 

heart was very sad. And as I went I saw that the Vision grew brighter, 

and I perceived that I was no longer walking away from it. 

But my soul was exceeding sorrowful. and I looked back often, and saw 

in memory the joys I had once known, until the tears blinded me, and I 

stumbled continually, for the path was rough, and it had begun to lead 

upward. 

Then I heard the Voice again, and it said, "Look not back; regret not the 

past; I will send thee another angel who will help thee to forget the 

things that are behind." 

Page 


Then the Sorrowful Angel vanished, and in his place stood one whose 

face was cheerful. and he said, "Come! let us be up and doing; I am the 

Angel of Work.” 

And I went with him-at first with lagging steps and a sore heart: but as 

my sight became clearer, I beheld many sick and discouraged, many 

who had fallen by the way. Then I heard the Voice again saying. "The 

laborers are few. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye 

have done it unto me.” 

So I began to help those around me, and as my hands grew busy, my 

heart lightened, and I forgot to look behind me and mourn for the lost 

joys of the past, and at times there was even a song upon my lips. But 

the road was rough and often dark, and whiles my courage failed me 

and my soul was disquieted within me. For there were sorrows I could 

not comfort, and hunger I could not satisfy, and· burdens I could not 

help to lift: and I could only stretch out my hands, and cry, "Oh, Thou 

who hast helped me, help these, for I cannot.” 

Then the Voice said, "Be not weary in well-doing. Thou art coming 

toward me. I will send one who will bring thee still nearer.” 

Then I saw beside me an angel with a veil before his face, who said in a 

grave voice, "Canst thou walk with me. I am the Angel of Sacrifice." 

But I shrank back, murmuring, "What wilt thou take from me?" And he 

answered, "I will take nothing. Thou must thyself give it of thine own 

free will. It is thy Dearest Wish.” 

"Then I hid my face in my hands, and cried, "I cannot. I cannot. Ask me 

something else! Give me some task to do! Have I not labored faithfully 

Page 


these many days? Did I not myself resign the joys that were once so 

precious to me, and turn away from them to follow Thee? And I will 

still follow Thee-still work for Thee, only leave me this one thing. It is 

so dear to me-it is my light in darkness-my food in hunger-my rest in 

weariness-my comfort always. And yet I have not loved it better than 

Thee: it has not led me away from Thee, nor hidden from me the 

Heavenly Vision.” 

Then the Voice said, "Thou canst do without all these things-light and 

food, rest and comfort, but canst thou do without me? And thou must 

choose between us. Is it too hard for thee? And yet thou saidst thou 

wouldst be nearer me.” 

Then I cried in answer, "Yes, yes, I would; but oh is there not another 

way? Take all else, and leave me only this." But the Voice spoke no more. 

Then I struggled until the sweat broke out upon my brow in drops of 

agony, and my nights were sleepless, and my days troubled, and the 

Vision grew dim, and I saw no light. 

But then came a day when the Higher triumphed, and with broken voice 

and streaming eyes, I held out my Dearest Wish, crying, "Take it, take it. 

Thy will be done.” 

Then the Vision broke in splendor, and I heard the Voice saying, "Thou 

hast fought a good fight. Now thou art indeed mine: and behold thy 

reward is even now beside thee.” 

So I looked, and the angel had lifted his veil and was smiling, and lo, it 

was the Wish I had given up, but changed-beautified and glorified, a 

Page 


heavenly blessing in the place of an earthly. 

Then it vanished from my sight, and the Voice spoke again : "Thy 

sacrifice is accepted. Thou shalt see it no more on Earth; but through all 

the days of thy mortal pilgrimage it shall be to thee a blessed hope, 

and it shall meet thee at the gate of Heaven, to be thine through all 

eternity. And thou hast come much nearer unto me, and art more like 

me. Dost thou desire to draw still nearer to me?” And I cried, "Yes, yes, 

still nearer!" And the Voice replied, "There is but one angel more for 

thee to walk with. It is the Angel of Suffering.” 

Then a great trembling seized me and I said, "The spirit is willing, but 

the flesh is weak. I know not if I can endure. Yet do with me as Thou 

wilt, for I am Thine.” 

Then suddenly there appeared before me an angel whose face was lined 

and furrowed, as with the deep strokes of a chisel, yet over all there was 

the beauty of a conquered peace-a peace wrested from great tribulation, 

the look of one who had forgotten how to weep. 

And one hand he held out to me, and with the other he pointed to the 

ground. And I looked and saw before me the cross which I had last seen 

in the hand of Him upon the Mount. 

Then the Voice said, "This only is the way by which thou canst approach 

nearest unto me and be most like me. This is thy cross. Lie down upon it 

without shrinking and without fear. Thou shalt not be alone: I too have 

been there. I sounded all the depths of pain, and at the last I was 

forsaken by the Father; but that last, worst suffering thou shalt not 

know, for I will never leave thee nor forsake thee;" 

Page 


So I lay down upon the cross, and I rest upon it even unto this day. And 

the Angel of Suffering watches upon my left hand, and upon my right is 

one who comes always with him~the Angel of His Presence. And of late 

there has been another, the Angel of Peace. And the three abide always 

with me. 

And the Vision is a Vision no longer, but a Reality. And it is not a stern 

Judge, nor a merciful God, but a loving Father, who bends over me. The 

way has brought me almost to His feet. There is but a narrow valley that 

divides us, the Valley of the Shadow, and the angel who shall lead me 

through it is the Angel of Death. 

I wait his coming with a tranquil heart, for beneath the mask that 

frights the timid human hearts which dread his summons I shall see a 

face I know-the face of the Son of God, who has walked beside me in 

the furnace of affliction, so that I passed through without even the 

smell of fire on my garments. 

And when I go down into the deep waters, it is His arm I shall lean 

upon, and the voice that welcomes me upon the other side will be His. 

And from the bank of the river the path leads upward to the City, which 

hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God, and they that enter 

in shall go no more out forever. 

And at the gate my Guide shall leave me, and I shall see Him no more 

until I behold Him at the right hand of God, having upon His head 

many crowns, and on His vesture a name written, "King of Kings, 

and Lord of Lords", before whose face heaven and earth shall flee away. 

Page 


And the nations of them that are saved shall stand before Him, and 

they that come up out of great tribulation, who endure unto the end, 

and inherit all things, and they shall cry with a loud voice saying, 

“Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon 

the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever.” 

And in Him who sitteth upon the throne I shall know the Man of 

Sorrows, Whom I saw upon the Mount of the Vision, holding in His 

hand a cross and calling unto the sons of men, "Come! Come! Who will 

take up his cross and follow me, that he may be like unto me, and that I 

may seat him upon my right hand, and share with him things glorious 

and beautiful beyond the dreams of earth and the imaginings of men?” 

Page 


CHAPTER I 

A Christmas Eve Baby 

In spite of the adage that poets are born and not made, we do not fancy 

there was anything more rhythmic in the cry that ushered Annie 

Johnson Flint into this world, than that which marked the advent of any 

other child: and yet it does seem strange that this one who was to 

become one of America's great poets should have been born on the eve 

when, long centuries before, the angels had first heralded their song of 

joy concerning the coming Savior. Annie was born on Christmas Eve, in 

the year 1866, in the little town of Vineland, New Jersey. Was it this that 

made her pen long years after run so sweetly in her Christmas verses? 

Did the baby catch the angel carols that night? Eldon and Jean Johnson, 

the father and mother, welcomed that Christmas present as the greatest 

earthly gift. The father was of English descent, while the mother 

claimed that she was Scotch. (A funny thing happened a few months 

before Miss Flint's death.' A Spiritualist wrote that he had had an 

interview with this mother in the spirit world, and proceeded to give a 

description that had not an atom of truth in it-but the "spirit" made a 

last guess in saying she was “Scotch".) But the only remembrance of that 

mother dates back to the time just before the tragedy which was to rob 

her forever of that mother's care. She was ushered in, a little three-year 

old tot, to the room where her mother was lying, and introduced to a 

newly arrived baby sister. She must have looked with wonder from that 

baby face into the mother's face that day, for it is the one and only 

imprint of that mother's likeness that lives in memory. It was indelible. 

The baby was left for life-long companionship, and still remains, but 

the mother shortly after this episode was taken from her forever. 

Page 


When, at the early age of twenty-three, that mother passed away, the 

father took the children to board with the widow of an old army 

comrade who had been killed in the Civil War. It was not a happy 

arrangement. The woman had two children of her own and her means 

were very limited.. During the two years the Johnson girls added to the 

cares of that family, they were most evidently unwelcome and 

unwanted. 

But it was at this time, when the outlook seemed so dark for their young 

lives, that a neighbor; interposed in a kindly way. She looms in Miss 

Flint's memory as Aunt Susie, although she could claim no blood 

relationship to this friend. Aunt Susie was a school teacher, and 

boarded near the school in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Flint. She became 

so strongly attached to the Johnson girls that she was continually 

speaking of them to the Flints, and at last so aroused their sympathy on 

behalf of the motherless children, that a little over two years after their 

mother's death they were adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Flint, whose name 

from henceforth they bore. While their name might sound hard and 

stony, their hearts were very tender. Two things made Mr. Johnson 

willing to part with the children: first, he was suffering at the time with 

an incurable disease from which he shortly afterwards died; then, the 

Flints offered a home after his own desire and thought for the children, 

as they were Baptists, and Mr. Johnson was very anxious that the 

children should be brought up in the Baptist faith, as he was a strong 

believer himself in their position. But God had higher thoughts than 

that this one should be simply pressed into the Baptist mold. It was in 

His plan that, like John Bunyan, her pen should bless the whole 

household of faith. Later she was converted in a Methodist revival 

meeting, and many of her most intimate friends were connected with 

Page 


that church. Then as the years rolled by she was helped by men and 

women in all branches of the evangelical church, and in return she 

herself became God's channel of blessing to that wider fellowship. She 

looked upon that "household of faith" as really one great family, with 

one faith, one Lord, one baptism, working under one Divine Spirit, 

having one Master over all. 

Mr. and Mrs. Flint were true Christians, and love reigned in their home. 

The two girls were taken right to their hearts, and loved as though they 

were their own flesh arid blood. The daily training was thorough, both 

in the Christian and the domestic sphere. When Annie was eight years 

old the family left the farm and moved into Vineland, New Jersey, but 

the touch of that country life never left her in all the after years. 

When they reached their new home in town, revival meetings were in 

progress, and she attended. It was during one of these meetings that the 

Spirit of God operated upon that young heart and brought her to saving 

faith in Christ. She always believed that at that time she was truly 

converted, and while she did not join the church until ten years later, 

she never doubted that the eternal work was then wrought. 

She strongly deprecated the idea that young children cannot apprehend 

spiritual truths. She felt that the divine mysteries were often plainer to 

the simple faith of a child than to many adults, blinded by their own 

prejudices and intellectual doubts. It was not difficult for her to endorse 

the words of the Master, "Thou hast hidden these things from the wise 

and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.” 

Page 


CHAPTER II 

School Days 

It was about the time that she passed through this spiritual experience 

that the poetic muse began to awaken within her. She tells of the thrill 

of her life when she realized that she could express herself in 

verse. Then came another move. When she was fourteen the family 

went to Camden, New Jersey, and there the two girls continued their 

schooling. There was nothing special to mark the years that flew by in 

that time. She was very fond of reading, and made good use of her 

adopted father's library, which contained a goodly number of the works 

of standard authors, such as Scott, Dickens, Kingsley, and Bulwer- 

Lytton, in addition to the majority of the poets. 

It was at this period that she formed one friendship that continued 

through the years. This girl friend tells of her early recollections of 

Annie as she then appeared, "a pretty, dark-eyed girl, with a clear olive 

complexion, and long black curls. She was kind-hearted, merry and 

vivacious-a general favorite with the boys and girls at school." This 

friend writes, "We sat together at school, whenever the teacher 

permitted it. We were both very fond of reading. Well do I remember 

the day when we read 'Madcap Violet' in school. We kept up the 

absorbed, studious look for the occasion, while that delightful novel 

was safely hidden behind the friendly covers of Swinton's Geography. 

We had much in common," says this girl friend. "Every Saturday 

afternoon we met, a select literary society of two, to read our favorite 

Page 


poets, and then we attempted verse ourselves. Annie wrote one poem 

which I greatly admired. It began something like this, 

"A white-robed star was dressed for the stage 

But still she glanced at the printed page. 

Mother! It was years since she had seen her, face, 

And now she was dead, and the dear old place 

Was in strange hands." 

The ending was tragic-amusingly so, as one sees it today. It continued, 

"And there in the solemn twilight, 

There in the silvery moonlight, 

There with outstretched arms she lay, · 

Waiting for the break of day. 

There in the morning they found her, 

With white robes glimmering round her, 

With arms stretched wildly above her head. 

There on the eve of her triumph—dead." 

Not to be outdone in this, this friend wrote several pathetic stanzas 

describing a gallant ship which finally plunged beneath the waves with 

all on board. 

But we are quite sure that Annie's poems were not all tragedy. There was 

too deep a streak of natural humor with her to exclude the comedy. We 

almost think that it was a reversion to these girlhood school days that 

drew from her in later years one of her nature songs. She entitled it, 

"How to Tell a Comet". You might almost think that she was sitting in the 

old school when she penned the lines, with the subtitle, "Astronomy 

Made Easy". It went as follows:"Though you may not know a planet 

From a bird that's called a gannet, 

Page 


Nor distinguish Sagittarius from Mars; 

Though the beasts in that strange zoo 

May all look alike to you, 

And you lump the whole caboodle just as 'stars'; 

Though you cannot place the Lion, 

Nor correctly trace Orion, 

Nor discern the jeweled belt he proudly wears, 

Nor the Big and Little Hounds, 

Through those happy hunting grounds, 

Nightly chasing up the Big and Little Bears; 

Though you cannot tell the Dipper 

From your grandpa's old felt slipper, 

And to name the constellations you would fail, 

There's one thing that you may know 

And be very sure it's so,- 

You can. always tell a comet by its tail. 

Its airy, hairy, winking, blinking, flowing, glowing tail; 

Its fiery, wiry, gleaming, streaming, flaring, glaring tail.” 

Then this girlhood friend says, "There came a time of the usual writing 

of love stories. For one of these the teacher who discovered it called the 

unfortunate author to stay after school. She confiscated Annie's most 

brilliant attempt. and gave her a severe lecture. 'I didn't suppose any one 

of my pupils knew enough about love to write a grown-up, sensational 

love story', she said in a shocked voice.” 

When this friend moved from Annie's home to another town, we know 

little of her later companionships. These two kept in touch to the close 

of life. These years were the formative years. It was then she became 

more conscious of herself as an individual and of her surroundings. 

Page 


She realized, 'too, her good fortune in having such a home and such 

foster parents. The Flints were people of high principle. They taught the 

girl to be self-reliant, independent and economical. They gave her a 

healthy horror of debt. "Owe no man anything", was a command tacitly 

obeyed. In those days there was no buying on the installment plan. If 

one had the money to purchase, then the article wanted was secured, 

otherwise one went without. 

Then, she acquired a very hearty contempt for what she called the 

"Leaners in life.'' the shiftless mortals who allow others to bear their 

burdens and pay their way, and make no effort themselves to better 

their condition. She had no use for those who spent their time in 

pitying themselves. 

Their parents provided a good home with plenty to eat and enough to 

wear, but there was no waste. "Gather up the fragments that nothing be 

lost" was a rule strictly observed. By this time she made all her own 

clothes as well as her mother's, except their best dresses, for which a 

dressmaker came into the house twice a year. She was also capable of 

taking charge of the house- keeping if necessary. 

One thing that is apparent from these earliest years is that she was a 

keen observer whether she was in the country or in the city. It was these 

early. observations on the Jersey Coast that in later years she turned so 

beautifully and helpfully into poetic language under the title, "The Set 

of the Sail”. 

"I stood on the shore beside the sea; 

The wind from the West blew fresh and free, 

While past the rocks at the harbor's mouth 

Page 


The ships went North and the ships went South, 

And some sailed out on an unknown quest, 

And some sailed in to the harbor's rest; 

Yet ever the wind blew out of the West. 

I said to one who had sailed the sea 

That this was a marvel unto me; 

For how can the ships go safely forth, 

Some to the South and some to the North, 

Far out to sea on their golden quest, 

Or in to the harbor's calm and rest, 

And ever the wind blow out of the West? 

The sailor smiled as he answered me, 

'Go where you will when you're on the sea, 

Though head winds baffle and flaws delay, 

You can keep the course by night and day, 

Drive with the breeze or against the gale; 

It will not matter what winds prevail, 

For all depends on the set of the sail.' “ 

Then in the other verses of this poem she makes the application. Of 

course the moralizing came in the later years. This keen observation of 

everything in nature comes out in one of the earlier booklets published, 

entitled, "Out of Doors". We think it is Nature's poetic classic. Take a 

verse out of her: poem entitled "The Creator'. 

"He takes the scent of the softening ground 

Where the first green blade pricks through, 

He takes the reddening maple bough 

A-slant against the blue, 

Page 


Follow on with the next verse, 

He takes the cheer in the robin's song 

And the flash of the blue-bird's wing, 

The joy of prisoned things set free, And 

of these He makes the Spring." 

"He takes the sheen of the waving wheat 

Where the slow cloud-shadows pass, 

He takes the brook's soft rippling tune 

And the daisied meadow grass, 

He takes the swish of the mower's scythe 

In the noontide's hot, white glare, 

The joy of labor and growing things,- 

And makes the Summer fair.” 

That poem will remain a masterpiece. 

It was in the girlhood years that there was stored up in the child mind 

the wealth of these things that burst forth in the later years. In those 

long, long years in which she was "shut in" those nature psalms would 

never have had the touch that was given to them but for the memories 

of girlhood when she ran untrammeled under Heaven's canopy and out 

into the open fields and woods. Not that she lost her observation of 

nature. I remember standing beside her sick-couch one day when she 

suddenly observed, "We are going to have rain today. My robin has just 

changed his note. He never sings in that tone unless the rain is coming." 

Sure enough, the rain came. When she wrote that sweet song. "The 

Lullaby of Rain", one finds there the blending of girlhood impressions 

gleaned in city and country. Intermingled also is seen the struggle with 

Page 


life's difficulties that marked her later days. And yet it too is a classic. It 

commences with the words, 

"Through the sultry city daylight I had toiled with throbbing head, 

But at night, though spent and weary, slumber from my wooing fled; 

Still before my aching vision lines of figures came and went, 

Ghosts of those long hours of labor and the day's imprisonment. 

Only glare and tumult entered through the window opened wide, 

Naught of freshness e'er could reach me from the surging human tide; 

Then, a muttered growl of thunder and the lightning's far-off flare, 

And a sudden breath of coolness in the hot and murky air; 

There's a patter on the shingles and a tap against the pane,- 

Oh, the orchestra is tuning for the Lullaby of Rain!" . 

As we read on through that poem we pass from the sultry heat of 

summer, the weariness and burden of the sweltering day, right into the 

beauty and refreshment of the thunderstorm that bursts and the 

shower that follows. Clear through to the close the muse is on her, and 

she carries you right on with her. 

Listen, 

"I can hear the sleepy twitter of a bird's note from the trees, 

And the meadow-brook's hoarse murmur, 

borne upon the rising breeze; 

There's a choked and chuckling gurgle from the overflowing eaves, 

And a drip! drip! drip! staccato from the soaked and streaming leaves, 

Then a hush along the shingles and a dash against the pane. 

Oh, a hundred voices mingle in the Lullaby of Rain! 

Now the single sounds are merging in a long crescendo roar 

That shall drown all lesser noises in its steady pelting pour; 

Hence, ye phantoms of old labor! ye shall haunt me now in vain' 

Page 


As I drift away to dreamland to the Lullaby of Rain.” 

But perhaps the results of her girlhood rambles in the Jersey woods and 

along the Jersey coast was never brought out better in the later years, 

than in her two poems; "From Forest to Fender" and "Nature's Shut-Ins", In 

the latter she likens the shut-in life-to the ferns in God's flower 

kingdom, always found in the shade and cool retreats, in their greatest 

beauty when most hidden. Those two poems reached a shut-in lady in 

the Middle States. She was deeply touched and moved by them. She had 

not Miss Flint's gift of poetry, but she had the artist's eye and the artist's 

touch. She was lying on her back year after year and her one occupation 

was with the artist's brush. She had them fasten her paper on her 

canvas over her bed and lying there she did most exquisite paintings. 

She took these two poems and verse by verse she put the artist's touch 

in the margin. The flowers to which Miss Flint referred were all painted 

in in their natural colors, beautifully done, and then she sent the book, 

with its hand-painted touch, to Miss Flint as a tribute of one shut-in to 

another. Miss Flint prized these two poems so wonderfully illustrated 

as a precious treasure. 

Page 


CHAPTER III 

Characteristics 

Whether by nature or through her early Christian experience Miss 

Flint was generally disposed to be cheerful and optimistic. She looked 

on the bright side of life, and was quite fond of jokes and able to get as 

much enjoyment out of life as possible. Aunt Susie had often told her 

that when she was just learning to walk she marched across the room 

with head up regardless of any obstacles in the way, and that forwardlooking 

lift of the head was a characteristic attitude. It was typical of 

the courage which she was to manifest in later life when she was 

hemmed in by so many trials. She certainly learned to endure hardness 

as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. 

Then she had a generous nature, and was ever ready to share what she 

had with others, and ever more willing to grant favors than to accept 

them. 

But we are sure that it is a mistake to touch on the commendable 

characteristics in her life records without lifting the veil on the other 

side. Annie was very human, and she herself had left a record of the 

glaring faults as she saw them. While still a child she had a very quick 

temper which flared up on slight provocation, but as quickly died down. 

She never claimed entire freedom from this tendency, but she had 

learned the secret of grace in overcoming. 

Page 


Another characteristic was her acute sensitiveness, which made her 

keenly alive to the needs and the wrongs of others, and, as is usual with 

one of this nature, her likes and dislikes were intense. She admits 

further that if she was accused of something she had not done and for 

which she was unjustly reproved, she indulged in sulky spells which 

lasted far longer than the storm of temper. She would not speak to 

anyone while in these moods nor condescend to explain any mistake 

which might have been made. This was an unfortunate trait in girlhood. 

But she records her greatest fault as lack of patience, with herself as 

well as with others. She did not like to wait for things. She wanted to see 

results at once. With this there was coupled a dogged persistence and 

she refused to give up anything once begun, until it was finished. This 

helped her to accomplish many a hard and distasteful task, but all 

through her life the hardest lesson she had to learn was patience. 

Again and again she had to be reminded to wait patiently for the Lord. 

It was so much easier to wait eagerly and impatiently, or to spend. the 

time making plans and devising schemes for doing something when the 

waiting time was over. One text that seemed especially written for her 

was, "Through faith and patience we inherit the promises.” 

Page 


CHAPTER IV 

Mixing the Bitter and Sweet 

Finishing her high school she spent one year at normal and then had a 

position offered to her. It was a great temptation to begin earning 

money, and as her mother was failing in health, and had had one slight 

stroke, she felt that she was really needed at home, so she started 

teaching the primary class in the same school that she had attended as a 

girl. According to her contract with the normal school she taught for 

three years, though early in the second year arthritis showed itself. 

She tried several doctors in turn, but it steadily grew worse until it 

became difficult for her to walk at all, and she had hard work to finish 

out the third year. After that she was obliged to give up her work, and 

there followed three years of increasing helplessness. 

The death of both her adopted parents within a few months of each 

other left the two girls again alone. There was little money in the bank 

and the twice orphaned children had come to a real "Red Sea Place" in 

their lives. It was just then that the faithful Aunt Susie again came to 

the rescue. She had been in the Sanitarium at Clifton Springs and was 

convinced that Annie could find help and healing there. Accordingly 

arrangements were made for Miss Flint to go and she was to have the 

rent of the house she was leaving for her income. 

Picture if you can the hopelessness of Miss Flint's position when she 

finally received the verdict of the doctors of the Clifton Springs 

Sanitarium that hence forth she would be a helpless invalid. Her own 

Page 


parents had been taken from her in childhood, and then her foster 

parents both passed away. Her one sister was all too frail. and struggling 

to meet her own situation bravely. Miss Flint was in a condition where 

she was compelled to be dependent upon the care of others who 

could not afford to minister to her except as compensated by her. In 

after years she always stated that her poems were born of the need of 

others and not from her own need; but one knows full well that she 

never could have written as she did for the comfort and help of 

thousands of others if she had not had the background of facing those 

very crises in her own life. She tells, for instance, of the circumstances 

that drew forth that which perhaps has become her most widely known 

poem, "At the Place of the Sea". A friend wrote her that she was in great 

difficulty and facing great trouble, and she did not see where she was 

going to turn for help or what she was going to do. She wished that Miss 

Flint would help her pray for a way out. She had come to what she 

termed "the Red Sea place in her life". This expression struck Miss Flint, 

and she looked up the incident in the Bible. The thing that impressed 

her most was that though the Israelites did face the Red Sea, and had 

come to a place of impassable difficulty, where there actually was no 

way out, yet when God's time came He said to Moses, "Speak unto the 

children of Israel that they go forward," and when He said go forward, 

He opened the way. So she came to write the poem for her friend. She 

reminded her that the Red Sea was the place where the Lord showed His 

power in spite of seemingly impassable obstacles. Later this friend 

wrote saying, with a veritable triumph of Miriam's song in her letter, 

that the Lord had opened and the Lord led her through. 

But Miss Flint could never have entered into those conditions had she 

not been "led through". She would never have been able to help others if 

she had not passed along the road herself. And so we still feel that what 

Page 


is commonly known as her "Red Sea poem" was born out of her own 

steps of faith. How could she have met the doubt in other lives if faith 

had not triumphed in the same sphere for herself? No, that first verse 

of her poem was beaten out in the bitter experiences of her own life as 

she wrote to others : 

"Have you come to the Red Sea place in your life, 

Where in spite of all you can do 

There is no way out, there is no way back, 

There is no other way but-through? 

Then wait on the Lord with a trust serene 

Till the night of your fear is gone; 

He will send the wind, He will heap the floods, 

When He says to your soul, 'Go on.' “ 

And when she went on to say, 

"His hand will lead you through-clear through 

Ere the watery walls roll down.” 

She knew. She had passed through that way. 

It was thus that God guided this life into its channel of useful service. 

She loved music. She had spent much time in seeking to make herself 

proficient to fill any position in that sphere, and then the disease 

twisted up those poor fingers, and made playing impossible. It literally 

drove her to write poems. 

Page 


CHAPTER V 

Pressed Into Poetry and Print 

With a pen pushed through bent fingers and held by swollen joints she 

wrote first without any thought that it might be an avenue of ministry, 

or that it would bring her returns that might help her in her support. 

Her verses provided a solace for her in the long hours of suffering. But 

then she began the making of hand-lettered cards and gift books, and 

decorated some of her own verses. Her "Christmas Carols" became 

popular. Two card publishers printed these greetings, and this helped 

her to get her foot on the first rung of the ladder of support. It gave her 

the larger vision of possibly securing openings through some of the 

magazines, by which her poems could be a wider blessing, and at the 

same time bring some little return that would minister to her own 

pressing need. When we met her first, twenty years ago, she had 

succeeded in thus placing a number of her poems in the old Christian 

Endeavor World, and the Sunday School Times had accepted several. 

From the first her writings appealed to us, and we early made them a 

special feature in the columns of The Evangelical Christian. 

Testimonies came in from many directions of blessing received, and in 

1919 we ventured to put forth the first little brochure of her poems. 

under the title of "By the Way, Travelogues of Cheer.” 

Miss Flint entered into every detail of the publishing of that first little 

book of poems with wonderful interest. She was anxious not only as to 

the poetry. but as to the artistic presentation. She was delighted when 

the late Rev. W. H. Griffith-Thomas undertook to write the introduction. 

Page 


It proved a marked success. and continues to this day one of the most 

popular of her booklets. Seven of these brochures, ever increasingly 

attractive, and ever more widely circulated, have now been issued. 

While her Canadian publishers really "discovered" her, to the Sunday 

School Times we think she was indebted for the largest step into the 

widest fellowship, In 1926 the Editors of that paper published a short 

article setting forth a few facts regarding the songwriter. To the large 

majority it evidently came as a complete surprise to know that Miss 

Flint was a shut-in. As soon as that fact became known, and that her 

support depended largely upon the sale of her books there came a 

perfect deluge of letters, no less than three thousand being received in 

the short space of seven weeks. For the time being she was certainly the 

best known person in Clifton Springs. While of course the first 

response was never repeated, there was the continuance of friendships 

created. Such spontaneous expressions of good will and interest came 

as a great encouragement to the invalid poetess, and inspired to new 

efforts to express in song the love and convictions of her heart and life. 

The issuance of her booklets and the action of the Sunday School Times 

linked her up with a world-wide fellowship. For a long time she sought 

to deal with this ministry herself, and to carry the burden of 

correspondence. One wonders how she could ever get a pen through 

those poor twisted fingers; but she was a beautiful writer, and a 

wonderful correspondent. Her letters were unique, bright and breezy, 

though written from her bed of affliction. They were as rich as her 

poems, and whatever the stage of her affliction, or however great the 

pain through which she might be passing, she always had a touch of 

humor that was refreshing. One of her great regrets in the after years 

was that the progress of her affliction made it necessary to dictate her 

Page 


messages to her friends, and of course this added to her expense. When 

she could afford it, she liked to go into the Sanitarium for a month or 

two around the Christmas season. It gave her a little more care and 

helpful medical treatment and at the same time she came into contact 

with a large number of guests in that great institution who purchased 

her booklets and her cards. 

One of the lessons which she had to learn in connection with the faith 

life was that she could not dictate to the Lord as to how He was to supply 

the need. She had been brought up with sturdy independence. She still 

struggled to make ends meet. She still sought to cut down expenses in 

order that she might be able to pay as she went. The thought of charity 

was obnoxious to her. She loved to give to others and help those who 

were in need, but to receive from others-that was quite another. matter. 

The breaking down of her prejudice in this sphere came about in a very 

simple way. One of the boarders staying at the home where she lived, 

when saying good-bye, tactfully slipped into her hand a gift of money. 

This was the first time such a thing had ever happened, and Miss Flint's 

pride was up in arms at once. The woman evidently noticed a difference 

in her manner and explained she wished to leave some remembrance 

with her, but not, knowing what Miss Flint's special need might be, 

thought it better to let her choose. Then she added something which 

went home. Miss Flint never forgot it. She said, "You know Jesus Christ 

said 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' but how can there be any 

givers to whom the blessing can come unless there are those who are 

willing to receive? It takes two halves to make a whole." Then she 

appealed to Miss Flint and asked if their positions were reversed, and 

she had the means. would she not be glad to give? This turned things 

around so completely that Miss Flint had to own that she had no right 

to withhold the blessing of giving from others. She took the gift so 

Page 


kindly meant, and tried to be a willing receiver if that would help some 

giver to obtain a blessing. Her life was lived, as someone has said, from 

hand to mouth, but as she liked to have it expressed, the mouth was 

hers, and the hand was God's, and His hand was never empty. 

But there came times of real trial and testing. Sales sometimes fell off, 

and extra needs pressed in. Sometimes for considerable periods she had 

to have a trained nurse. There were doctor's bills running up and then 

too she was under pressure of many other trials; but again it was in 

these very conditions that some of the heart experiences wrought by 

them, brought her where she could be a blessing and help to others. 

One of her sweetest sonnets which she says was born of the experience 

of another would never have found expression if it had not been for her 

own trials. The special incident that drew it forth was the visit of a little, 

tired, discouraged deaconess to Clifton Springs. She used to call and tell 

her troubles to Miss Flint, and when she left and went back to the West, 

she wrote saying how blue she felt, and how down-hearted, and she 

didn't see why God allowed such hard things to come into her life. 

Miss Flint put her answer into a poem. Nothing sweeter ever came from 

her pen. She entitled it, " What God Hath Promised". · 

"God hath not promised But God hath promised 

Skies always blue, 

Strength for the day, 

Flower-strewn pathways Rest from the labor, 

All our lives through; · Light for the way; 

God hath not promised Grace for the trials, 

Sun without rain, 

Help from above, 

Joy without sorrow, 

Unfailing sympathy, 

Peace without pain. Undying love. " . 

Page 


We were interested in finding this poem had passed over to Britain. A 

publisher there sent it to Germany to be brought out in beautiful 

colored form. It was most artistically produced, but they had omitted 

the name of the author. We fancy it became one of the best selling cards 

of the British publishers, but at least a share of the profits ought to have 

gone to maintain the one in whose dark hours triumphant faith had 

found expression in these words. 

Following the example of The Sunday School Times, The Evangelical 

Christian published a brief sketch of her life. This was done at a time of 

particular difficulty in Miss Flint's life, and had very blessed results. It 

was suggested to the constituency of the magazine that if anyone cared 

to show his or her appreciation of this singer of sweet songs their gifts 

would be forwarded to Miss Flint. Knowing her extreme sensitiveness 

on this point, the news of what had been done was conveyed to her very 

tactfully, and was received with the same unwavering trust in God and 

implicit faith in His overshadowing providence in her life. The expenses 

of the invalid had increased greatly and the response to the appeal was 

gratifying. For a long time after her need was made known donations 

came in until well over $ 1,000 had been passed on to her to meet the 

ever-increasing expenses which she had to face owing to the progress 

of the disease. With the publication of other of her booklets the 

royalties increased and contributed materially to the supplying of her 

temporal needs until the time of her death. All of which was a matter of 

profound thanksgiving with the poetess, to whom Jehovah, the Lord 

who supplied, was a present reality. 

In another sphere her friends criticized and challenged her faith. As her 

story became known far and wide it was natural that she should receive 

many visitors. Many of these were, of course, earnest Christians, and 

Page 


sincerely interested in her welfare. Among them were some who 

strongly believed that healing of the body was for every child of God. 

Their claim was that healing was in the Atonement and purchased for 

us by Christ, and that everyone who was walking obediently could claim 

deliverance from physical infirmities and bodily sickness. She listened 

to what they had to say. More than that, she went earnestly and 

prayerfully to search the Scriptures as to God's will. It was only after 

most painstaking study and prayer, and the reading of the best writers 

on this subject that she reached the conclusion that, while God can and 

does heal in this way in some cases, in others He does not; that He has 

seen fit to leave some of the most triumphant saints deeply afflicted 

She saw too that many of those who pressed their theory were 

themselves compassed with infirmity, and while telling others that they 

ought to claim healing, bore in their own lives the failure of their 

theory. Miss Flint became thoroughly convinced that God intended to 

glorify Himself through her, in her weak, earthen vessel, and while like 

Paul she had three times, and more, prayed that this might be taken 

from her, there came to her with real assurance the voice which said, 

"My grace is sufficient for thee. My strength is made perfect in 

weakness.’' She reached the place where she too could say with Paul, 

"Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmities that the 

power of Christ may rest upon me.’' 

The faith life always brings faith fellowships, and in her friendships 

Miss Flint was singularly blessed. She felt that she had been enriched 

through them, and from all parts of the world she received words that 

were a constant comfort and stimulation to her. Many of these friends 

she never saw, and will wait to see them over on the other side. Some 

of them that she loved dearly went on before her. 

Page 


Perhaps to these we owe the sweet little verse included in her "Songs of 

Faith and Comfort", and entitled "The Blessings That Remain". The first 

stanza reads: 

"There are loved ones who are missing 

From the fireside and the feast; 

There are faces that have vanished, 

There are voices that have ceased; 

But we know they passed forever 

From our mortal grief and pain, 

And we thank Thee, 0 our Father, 

For the blessings that remain.” 

It was on one of these occasions when her little group of friends had 

been visited with sorrow, and when a missionary from South America 

was mourning the loss of his beloved wife that he sent to Miss Flint a 

little card on which were printed the words, "I don't look back. The Lord 

knows all the shortcomings. I don't look in, or I should be wretched. I 

just keep looking up into His face.'' It was this that drew from Miss Flint 

the sweet response in poetic form, "But We See Jesus”. 

I don't look back, God knows the fruitless efforts, 

The wasted hours, the sinning, the regrets, 

I leave them all with Him who blots the record, 

And mercifully forgives, and then forgets. 

I don't look forward, God sees all the future, 

The road -that, short or long, will lead me home, 

And He will face with me its every trial, 

And bear for me the burdens that may come. 

But I look up-into the face of Jesus, 

Page 


For there my heart can rest, my fears are stilled, 

And there is joy, and love, and light for darkness, 

And perfect peace, and every hope fulfilled. 

One of the amusing things about this poem was that when it was 

published in The Evangelical Christian a lady down south wrote to the 

Editor saying that a mistake had been made, that her uncle was the 

author of the poem and that she had found it in his own hand writing 

on his desk after his death. This letter was sent to Miss Flint asking for 

an explanation to satisfy the lady. She remembered perfectly where and 

why it was written. She remembered also that a few years before she 

had received a letter from a man in the south. He told her he had read 

that poem and liked it so much that he wanted to improve it a little. He 

had gone to the extent of re-writing some of the lines. Not only this, he 

had printed some copies signing Miss Flint's name, and adding, 

"Revised by So-and-So." She put his letter aside to answer later when 

she had cooled off a little, but it was mislaid and could not be found 

until it turned up in a box of old letters several years afterwards. This 

identified the uncle and vindicated the author. 

The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace. Exodus 14:14 

Page 


CHAPTER VI 

The Poetical Theologian 

There is no place where the Christian has been still more orthodox 

than in his hymn book. It is true that there is occasionally a hymn that 

is open to criticism by the strict theologian, but as a whole our hymn 

books have been orthodox and hymns express not only the highest 

ecstasy of the heart, but the deepest truths of the Scriptures. When one 

comes to study this life from the theological standpoint it bears out the 

old idea that religion primarily is of the heart rather than the intellect. 

With the poet the heart predominates, and in hymnology we have the 

highest expression of the Christian soul when related aright to 

Christian truths. 

Commencing with God's revelation in Nature, nothing could be better 

outside of the 19th Psalm and other Scriptures than Annie Johnson 

Flint's tribute to the Creator as seen in His creation. A poem entitled 

"The Song of Creation" is classical in its language and rich in its 

incitement to worship and praise. Some of these would be suitable for 

expressions of thanksgiving in the great congregation. Another one of 

these is the "Spring Song of Praise". 

"Praise. the Lord, ye heaven of heavens, 

Sun and moon and stars of light; 

Praise Him, all His vast creation, 

Deepest deep and highest height. 

Praise Him, meadow, mount and valley, 

Page 


Praise Him, forest, field and stream, 

Praise Him, sky and earth and ocean, 

Roused from winter's chilling, dream .” 

In most of the dissertations on theology it is customary to commence 

with the attitude of the writer toward the Scriptures themselves. In this 

Annie Johnson Flint did more than rhyme out.her reasons why she 

believed the Bible to be the Word of God. In one of her poems, " The 

Things That Remain", she says, 

"And though the little hills shall melt, 

The mighty mountains move, 

Though earth and heaven shall pass away, 

And suns unstable prove, 

Though faithless stars shall cease to shine, 

And there is no more sea, 

Still changeless as the changeless God 

The Word of God shall be;” 

In another poem on "The Steering Star", she concludes, 

"Oh, wavering lights of man's device, 

Oh, burned-out suns of human thought, 

Your fitful gleams will not suffice 

To find the heaven that we sought, 

Light of the world, our hope is here; 

Star of our faith, we look to Thee; 

Sure Word of God, unwavering, clear, 

Guide Thou our souls across the sea.” 

Page 


That strength of conviction in the Word perhaps is never better 

expressed than in her little poem entitled "I Know". The first verse runs 

as follows : 

"I know-against this fortress wall 

The gates of hell shall not prevail, 

I know in Whom I have believed 

And that His Word shall never fail; 

I know that He is able still, 

Is strong to save and strong to keep. 

And all that I commit to Him 

Is safe, though I may wake or sleep.” 

But she had no sympathy with those who made great profession of 

believing the whole Bible and yet were constantly manifesting a spirit 

contrary to all its deepest teaching. Her thought of the Bible was to have 

it transferred into the life that it transfigures. In one of her poems on 

"The World's Bible", she says, 

"We are the only Bible 

The careless world will read, 

We are the sinner's gospel, 

We are the scoffer's creed, 

We are the Lord's last message, 

Given in deed and word. 

What if the type is crooked? 

What if the print be blurred?” 

Page 


She felt we were to be living epistles if we were to commend the Gospel 

which we preach. With the teaching that undermines faith in the Bible 

under the specious pretext of modern thought she had no sympathy. 

She saw through its proud claims of superior scholarship, and she paid 

her respects to them in several of her poems. 

But orthodoxy finds its vital test when one comes to the Atonement and 

the Christ that died. Her little booklet, "Songs of the Saviour", sets forth 

her position here. Perhaps one of the sweetest in this sphere is the one 

in which she brings before us the unbelief of Thomas, and his assertion 

that he would not believe except he could put his fingers in the print of 

the nails. She says, 

"Except we see in His hand the print of the nail that marred it, 

Except we see in His side the mark of the spear that scarred it, 

We are right to refuse to believe, to challenge His claims and doubt 

them, For the wounds are the sign of the Christ, and He will not 

come without them.” 

The closing verse of that poem brings one to the fact that it is not 

enough simply to assert that you believe in the Atonement. There must 

be personal appropriation of the purchase of the Crucified One. 

Her last stanza reads : 

"For it is not enough for our faith 

that others have seen and known Him; 

But each for himself must see, 

and each for himself must own Him; , . , 

And each must touch the print of the nails, 

the proof of His claim receiving, 

Page 


And each must cry, 'My Lord, my God', 

and fall at His feet, believing.” 

But one of her most striking testimonies to the Cross is found in her 

Nature Psalms, her little booklet, **”Out of Doors” She laid hold of a 

report concerning a beautiful natural formation of the Cross on the 

Island of Manan, in the Bay of Fundy. We have since received a 

photograph of that very rock. With the mental picture of that rocky 

Cross before her keen vision, she penned her lines on "The Crag of the 

Cross”. It is one of her longest poems. Listen to the first stanza : 

"Beside the bleak coast of the Northland, 

where winds with the tempests keep tryst, 

Amid a wild welter of waters, 

an island looms out of the mist; 

Forever the high tide of Fundy 

sweeps past with a rush and a roar, 

Forever the gulls cry their warning 

when fog wreathes the desolate shore; 

Above the gray billows the cliffs frown, 

above the grim cliffs - bends the sky, 

And clear against cliff-side and heavens, 

the Crag of the Cross rises high.” 

Her second stanza may well be included here, 

"Of old hath He laid its foundation 

who holdeth the sea in His hand, 

Who weigheth its waters by measure 

and setteth their bounds by the sand; 

**Out of Doors Nature Songs by Annie Johnson Flint 

https://bit.ly/2QEmZkJ 

Page 


And slowly His craftsmen have carved it, 

-the frost and the storm and the wave- 

Rough-hewn from the rock everlasting 

where aeons their annals might grave. 

Long, long, ere o'er Bethlehem's manger 

the Star shed its radiant light, 

And long ere on Calvary's summit 

the noonday was shrouded in night; 

While kingdoms and nations had risen 

and played their brief parts for a day, 

And countless new creeds and old systems 

had flourished and passed to decay; 

While oracles lapsed into silence 

and prophets grew weary and dumb, 

The Cross, through the centuries waiting, 

was pledge of a faith yet to come.” 

That poem in its entirety must surely be one of the things that will 

remain as her contribution to the English language, and to the 

Christian faith. 

When one comes to the next item of Christian faith and reaches the 

theme of the Resurrection, rich inspiration flows from her pen. It was 

not just to supply the demand for Easter cards. Her heart welled up in 

fellowship with a living Savior. In one poem already quoted "Know", she 

has a resurrection verse as follows : 

" 'I know'-upon this lighthouse tower 

The winds and waves shall beat in vain; 

I know that my Redeemer lives 

Page 


And in His death all Death was slain; 

I know my life is hid with Him 

Beyond the reach of change or harm, 

And if he and death to me are one 

Within the shelter of His arm.” 

Another resurrection poem she took from the little word in Matthew 

28:6, "He is risen, as He said". The last three words were her title. It ran as 

follows : 

"He has risen, as He said. 

Christ the Lord the promise gave 

To His weak disciples' hearts 

When He told of cross and grave; 

But they failed to understand 

And they heard-or heeded-not, 

And, when they had seen Him dead 

All His promise they forgot. 

"So upon that Easter mom 

When the long, sad hours were past, 

And they came unto the tomb 

Where the watch had sealed Him fast, 

They had not remembered yet 

All the gracious words He said, 

Till the shining angel spake : 

'He is risen, as He said.' “ 

Two other stanzas complete her resurrection poem, and lead on to the 

truth that should always follow, the Blessed Hope of the Christian. 

Page 


Her conversion in the Methodist Church, even though she had been 

reared in the midst of Baptists, gave no predisposition to stress the 

doctrine of the Second Advent. Methodists have largely suppressed that 

truth since the days of the Wesleys and Coke, and yet her faith here 

came from the simple Word of God. She could not sit and listen to her 

Lord as He said, "If I go away, I will come again," without simply asking 

what He meant: and when she followed on through the great scene of 

His glorious ascension and listened to the men in white, she thought 

she had her answer. "This same Jesus, whom ye have seen go from you 

into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as you have seen Him go." So 

she turned her pen from time to time to that which was to her a 

comforting hope. Laying hold of the words of the loved Disciple, "We 

Shall See Him as He is," she wrote the simple stanzas, 

"We shall see Him as He is- 

Not as men for long have thought Him, 

While through all the circling years 

Blind and stumbling they have sought Him ; 

Not as fierce and warring sects 

Each in turn have claimed to know Him, 

Nor as Love, who knoweth yet 

But in part, is fain to show Him. 

Nor as even Hope, who far 

In the country of her dreaming, 

Hath espied Him, like a star 

Faintly through the shadows gleaming. 

Nor as Faith in visions fair 

From her mountain height hath seen Him, 

Darkly through the glass of time, 

Page 


With the mists of earth to screen Him. 

We shall see Him as He is- 

Face to face shall we behold Him, 

When the visions and the dreams 

And the clouds no more enfold Him; 

In His likeness we shall wake, 

Spirit unto spirit calling, 

'Neath the white flame of His eyes 

All the earthly from us falling; 

We shall stand all spotless, pure, 

Gazing on His unveiled graces, 

While we feel the glory grow 

On our rapt and upturned faces. 

Till the Master, looking down, 

On the silver of His fining, 

Shall behold reflected there 

His own image clear and shining. “ 

That Blessed Hope spurred her to missionary activity. She sought to do 

her part in hastening the coming of the Lord by encouraging in every 

way she could the spread of the Gospel in all lands. She expressed her 

hope of the glorious day when the Gospel and the Christ should prevail, 

in the words of the poem she entitled, "As the Waters Cover the Sea”. 

But one other of her best poems on the Second Coming she took from 

the word of the great Resurrection chapter, "We shall not all sleep but 

we shall all be changed"; and in 1 Thess. 4: 1 7, "We shall be caught up . . . 

to meet the Lord in the air.” That Blessed Hope caught her up in the 

muse of the poet, and she penned the words, "We shall change: 

Page 


"We shall change: 

Into something new and strange. 

Death shall set his captives free; 

Mortal shall immortal be; 

We shall put the earthly by 

Sin and sin's defiling stain, 

Weakness, weariness, and pain 

Evermore like Him to be 

Whom at last our eyes shall see; 

Into something fair and strange 

We shall change. 

We shall go-- 

Not with funeral 'cortege slow, 

Not with toll of passing bell' 

Human grief and gloom to tell, 

But with shout of Christ on high, 

Trump of God and angel's cry; 

We who dwell as exiles here, 

Longing for a land more dear, 

Joyful, to our home above, 

Joyful, to the Lord we love, 

From all evils here below 

We shall go.” 

She took no interest in hairsplitting theories about the Second Coming. 

She deprecated controversy and bitterness in this sphere. She 

fellowshipped and loved all those who love His appearing. This was no 

doctrine with her. She was looking for a Person who had given a 

promise. When she saw earth's woes, she longed for the coming again 

of the World's Redeemer. 

Page 


CHAPTER VII 

Songs of Comfort 

But it was not in the setting forth of Christian doctrine in poetic form 

that Annie Johnson Flint’s greatest ministry lay. It was in the 

application of Christian truths to the experiences of life. It was to the 

weary pilgrim on life's journey that she sang her sweetest song. She 

knew the One who was the Man of Sorrows. She had drunk her own cup 

of bitterness and could sympathize. And to the weary traveller along 

earth's way she sought to sing her songs of help and hope. One of the 

sweetest single stanza poems that she wrote was perhaps 

"Thy Strength and My Day" : 

"Give me Thy strength for my day, Lord, 

That wheresoe'er I go, 

There shall no danger daunt me 

And I shall fear no foe; 

So shall no task o'ercome me, 

So shall no trial fret, 

So shall I walk unwearied 

The path where my feet are set; 

So shall I find no burden 

Greater than I can bear, 

So shall I have a courage 

Equal, to all my care; 

So shall no grief o'erwhelm me, 

So shall no wave o'erflow;- 

Give me Thy strength for my day, Lord, 

Page 


Cover my weakness so." 

We wonder if anyone, outside of sacred writ, ever met the weary 

pilgrim with a sweeter word than that which Annie Johnson Flint 

incorporated into her little poem on "The Court of the King';. The 

opening stanzas read : 

"With staff that had failed in my need 

Where the road had been stony and steep; 

With lamp that was smoking and dim; 

Though the darkness was growing more deep; 

Weary, too weary to pray 

And too heavy-hearted to sing, 

Faint with the toils of the way 

I came to the court· of the King. 

There where the fountains fall cool, 

Their waters unfailing and pure; 

There where the ministering palms 

Stand like His promises sure, 

Oh! there was peace in its shade, 

Oh! there was rest in its calm; 

And its sweet silences lay 

On my bruised spirit like balm.” 

Surely, weary pilgrim on Life's journey, this woman must have been in 

one of Bunyan's pilgrim parties. She knew the things that you and I 

have passed by the way, when she, wrote the above sweet words. And 

then she went on to say: ''Long did I kneel in His court, 

And walk in his garden, so fair; 

All I had lost or had lacked 

Page 


I found in His treasuries there; 

Oil to replenish my lamp, 

His kindness a crown for my head, 

For the staff that had wounded my hand 

The rod of His mercy instead.” 

With scarcely a break in the stanzas she continues on to its conclusion : 

"A garment of praises I found 

For the sullen, dark garb I had worn, 

And sandals of peace for the feet 

That the rocks and the briers had torn; 

Joy for my mourning He gave, 

Making my Spirit to sing, 

And, girded with gladness and strength, 

I passed from the court of the King.” 

Only one who had borne the heat and burden of the day; only one who 

had shared earth's trials and been through earth's tumult, and then 

turned to the quietness of the closet and to the treasures of the precious 

Word of God, could have penned such lines as those. We question 

whether a pain-free life could ever have beaten out the treasures that 

she has left for our enjoyment. The writer of these lines has again and 

again picked up one of her little poem pamphlets in times of 

discouragement and the words have faced him with cheer and help, and 

he has longed that others might read that which blessed his soul. Take 

such a one as she put forth under the title, 

" Your Father Knoweth" ….- 

"He knoweth the need of my life 

For shelter and raiment and food; 

Page 


In each trifling care of the day 

The word of His promise is good; 

He knoweth my thought from afar, 

The wish that I never have told, 

And every unspoken desire 

His wisdom doth grant or withhold.” 

Then come two other stanzas, one of which is headed "He knoweth the 

way that I take", and the third stanza, "He knoweth the need of my soul". 

And then she comes to the concluding verse in the sweet words : 

"He knoweth me-yet He can love, 

Can wait with love's patience divine, · 

My stubborn and arrogant heart, 

Its will to His own to resign; 

He knoweth my frame is but dust; 

He knoweth how much it can bear; 

I rest in that knowledge supreme; 

I trust in His power and care.” 

In those more than forty years of suffering there was many a day which 

would have pressed out from the poet's heart the words that we have in 

another sweet song : 

"I am so tired Lord-oh, lift me up 

To Thine. unfailing strength and rest me so. 

I am so weary of the stress and strain, 

The fevered rush, the grinding daily toil 

For daily bread, that wears my poor life out 

To keep life in-oh, lift me, lift me, Lord, 

Page 


To Thine enfolding peace, and calm me so,” 

And that poem leads through and on and up until this last word which 

evidences that the answer to her wish and her cry had come: 

"What need have I of any more than this?” 

We do not wonder that her little book entitled "Songs of Faith and 

Comfort", from which this gem is taken, has been passed on to 

thousands of those who are treading a similar path. 

Annie Johnson Flint believed in and exemplified what some have called 

the "deeper life" and others designate "the higher life". She believed that 

Christians should go on, ever on, experimentally; into the truth of God. 

Taking the words of Paul. "Therefore, leaving the first principles let us 

go on unto perfection." She wrote a poetic incitement under the title, 

"Let Us Go On" : 

"Some of us stay at the cross, 

Some of us wait at the tomb, 

Quickened and raised together with Christ, 

Yet lingering still in its gloom; 

Some of us bide at the passover feast 

With Pentecost all unknown- 

The triumphs of grace in the heavenly place 

That our Lord has made our own. 

If the Christ who died had stopped at the cross 

His work had been incomplete, 

If the Christ who was buried had stayed in the tomb 

Page 


He had only known defeat; 

But the Way of the Cross never stops at the Cross, 

And the Way of the Tomb leads on, 

To victorious grace in the heavenly place. 

Where the risen Lord has gone. 

So, let us go on with our Lord 

To the fullness of God He has bought, 

Unsearchable riches of glory and good 

Exceeding our uttermost thought; 

Let us grow up into Christ, 

Claiming His life and its powers,-- 

The triumphs of grace, in the heavenly place 

That our conquering Lord has made ours.” 

Annie Johnson Flint has taught us the lesson once more that the 

deepest things are often comprehended by the simple mind, and that 

the things profound can be apprehended by the child. The highest 

heights and the deepest depths she expressed in such sweet language, 

and language that can be understood by all. So many of her best poems 

found their suggestions from the texts which she heard and read. The 

sermon took a simpler form when she put it forth in rhyme. We think 

any preacher can preach the better from Ephesians 3:17-19, "That we 

may be able to comprehend the breadth and length and depth and 

height and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge'', after 

reading her poetic homily. Her little sermonette takes up in its five 

stanzas, five great questions from the text. It starts off : "How broad is 

His love? Oh, as broad as man's trespass, 

As wide - the need of the world can be; 

Page 


And yet for the need of one soul it can narrow 

He came to the world and He came to me.” 

Under her first heading she comprehends as much as many a preacher 

gets into a whole sermon. Then take her second stanza. which takes up 

the question of dimension : 

"How long is His love? Without end or beginning, 

Eternal as Christ and His life it must be, 

For, to everlasting as from everlasting 

He loveth the world and He loveth me.” 

She gathers up the ends of the two eternities of the past and future and 

packs them all into that little verse expressive of the love of Christ. And 

then she continues; 

"How deep is His love? Oh, as deep as man's sinning, 

As low as that uttermost vileness can be; 

In the fathomless gulf of the Father's forsaking 

He died for the world and He died for me.” 

In those four simple lines she takes one to Calvary and the great theme 

in which the Christ Himself cries out that tremendous question, "My 

God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken me?" And she makes that the 

plumb line to try and fathom its depths. What will she do with the other 

dimension? You get it in her fourth stanza : 

"How high is His love? It is high as the heavens, 

As high as the throne of His glory must be; 

And yet from that height He hath stooped to redeem us, 

Page 


He so loved the world and He so loved me.” 

She passes from dimensions to comprehension, and in her closing 

verse, she presses home that love into the bounds of personal 

experience where she raises in the final stanza the last question : 

"How great is His love? Oh, it passeth all knowledge, 

No man's comprehension its measure can be; 

It filleth the world, yet each heart may contain it 

He so loved the world and he so loves me.” 

We challenge Christians to pick up any one of her little booklets 

without finding something that will call their lives to deeper trust in 

Christ, or make the presence of the Christ more real to the daily life. In 

this brief sketch we cannot quote more largely than we have done. 

That he would grant you, according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with 

might by his Spirit in the inner man; That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that 

ye, being rooted and grounded in love, May be able to comprehend with all saints what 

is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; And to know the love of Christ, 

which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God. 

Ephesians 3:16-19 

Page 


CHAPTER VIII 

Sunset and Eventide 

Miss Flint determined that there was to be "no moaning of the bar 

when she put out to sea". The last years of her life brought her no ease 

from her affliction, no lessening of the pain and suffering. And yet, we 

think that in those closing years she really exemplified more than ever 

some of the sweetness of her earlier verses. Her "Water Lily Story" was 

one of the first poems in print, and we like to think of it as typical of 

her life. It was really written for a baby book in July. She was moved to 

write it in a way that turned out to be a real providence for her. She had 

faced an unexpected deficit in her income. When this poem was offered 

to the "Youths' Companion" it found a response and brought her a 

cheque that just met her need. Again it takes us back to her girlhood 

observations. We wish we could present " The Water Lily", as she 

wrote it : 

"When first I woke to life; 

Deep down in the river's bed, 

I could not breathe for the stifling ooze 

And the blackness over my head. 

In darkness I longed for the light, 

Prisoned, I yearned to be free, 

In dreams I pined for the sky and the wind, 

For star and bird and tree; 

And I said : 'I will rise to that upper air, 

And the life that draweth me.’ 

Page 


The twining weeds of the water-world 

Reached out and held me fast; 

The lithe reeds wove a tangled net 

To catch me as I passed; 

The creeping things of mire and mud 

Beckoned and bade me stay; 

In the treacherous current, swift and strong, 

I felt my weak stem sway; 

But through them, over them, past them all, 

I took my upward way” 

Then one thinks of the closing part of this wonderful life as it seemed to 

open up and bloom for the world's blessing, and she goes on : 

"Till, white, white, 

Brimmed with sunshine and steeped in light, 

I lifted up my fragrant cup- 

Bloom of the daytime and star of the night 

In rapture I gazed at the heavens blue 

And knew that all my dreams were true.” 

In the last stanza she concludes with the words : 

"Till, pure and white, 

Filled with glory and steeped in light, 

No trace of the soil from whence it springs 

Staining the Soul's expanding wings, 

You too Shall see the arching heaven's blue 

And find that all your dreams are true. 

You shall eat of joy as your daily bread, 

Page 


Through love you shall learn and by loving live; 

You shall drink of life at the fountain head, 

And that life to the world in sweetness give.” 

In later years, her Water Lily poem was broadcast from a San Francisco 

station and brought her a great response and dozens of letters. In Miss 

Flint's own notes from which this sketch of her life is written, her 

affliction receives little notice. She would have it so. Although crippled, 

she did not consider herself helpless in the sense that she could do 

nothing but bemoan her lot. She believed that God had laid her aside 

for a purpose, even although that purpose was obscured to her at times, 

but she also believed that He had work for her to do, and she put her 

very best into the writing of her poems, rendering this ministry unto 

Him. The result has been that her verses have an unusually deep appeal 

to human hearers. The simple reason is that she felt what she wrote, 

and out of the crucible of suffering she was able to administer that 

comfort to others wherewith she herself had been comforted of God. 

No one but God and she knew what suffering she endured as the disease 

became worse with the passing of the years, and new complications 

developed. But through it all, her faith in the goodness and mercy of 

God never wavered. There were many times no doubt when her soul 

would be burdened with the mystery of it all and the . why and 

wherefore of, the thing she was called upon to endure. In that respect 

she was most human like the rest of us, but the marvelous thing is that 

her faith never faltered, and that she was at all times able to say "Thy 

Will be Done". For more than forty years there was hardly a day when 

she did not suffer pain. For thirty-seven years she had become 

increasingly helpless. Every joint in her body had become rigid, 

although she was able to turn her head, and in great pain write a few 

Page 


lines on paper. But long before these later years of helplessness she had 

received her one great affirmation from God which settled all her 

doubts. Perhaps the shortest stanza which she wrote was upon the 

words, "Wherefore all the promises of God in Him are yea and amen." 

To this verse she wrote: 

" 'Is God-?' 'Hath God-?' 'Doth God-?' 

Man's 'Why?' and How?' 

In ceaseless iteration storm the sky. 

'I am'; 'I will'; 'I do'; sure Word of God, 

Yea and Amen, Christ answereth each cry; 

To all our anguished questionings and doubts 

Eternal affirmation and reply.” 

In less than a week before the passing, Mrs. Bingham and Mr. Stock, 

with whom Miss Flint had had most of the correspondence about the 

publication of her poems, called to see her, in the early morning. The 

nurse gave her "no" to the request for an interview, but when the name 

was passed in, she said it mattered not whether it was morning, noon or 

night, nothing should keep them out of her chamber. And for an hour 

they had delightful fellowship. There was no thought then of the 

immediate passing. But on the Thursday morning, the following week, 

September 8th, she felt very tired arid wondered if she could live the 

day out. When the doctor was called he stated that it was just weakness. 

But all that day she did not improve and the doctor was called again in 

the evening. He saw at once that she was in great distress and her heart 

was behaving badly. Before giving her a hypodermic he asked if there 

was anything she wished to say or have her friends do as she might not 

rally. Her last words were: "I have nothing to say. It's all right." A few 

minutes later she had gone to be with Christ. Sorrow, affliction, pain, 

Page 


suffering and death was ended forever, for the former things had 

passed away. One may well apply to her end the words of the book of 

Revelation : "These are they which came out of great tribulation and 

have washed their robes and have made them white in the blood of the 

Lamb." And going to another book of a great dreamer and writer of 

whom Miss Flint was very fond, we have drawn forth the words that 

told the story in a similar fashion : 

"Now the day drew on when she must be gone. 

And behold all the Banks beyond the River were full 

of horses and chariots which were coming down from above 

to accompany her to the City gates. So she came forth and entered 

the River with a beck and a farewell to those that followed her to 

the River side. The last words she was heard to say here were 

'I come, Lord, to be with Thee and bless Thee.' “ 

In considering the life of Annie Johnson Flint one is perplexed with 

questions as old as humanity itself, such as the mystery of pain and 

suffering. That the wicked should suffer as the reward for their wrongdoing 

seems only just and right, but that the righteous should have to 

pass through the furnace sometimes heated seven times is a great 

stumbling block to many people. That is because we only see half the 

circle of life. One thing we are sure of, and that is that the Divine 

Potter makes no mistakes as He molds the clay left unresisting in His 

hands. "When it had come forth from his hand, he had fashioned it 

indeed, a goodly vessel prepared and fit for the Master's use." Miss 

Flint's beautiful poem on the Potter would make a fitting conclusion to 

this life, the second verse of which reads : 

"The Potter fashioned the Cup 

With whirling wheel and hand; 

Page 


Hour by hour He built it up 

To the form that His thought had planned. · 

'Twas broken, and broken again, · 

Marred by a flaw, a crack, a stain, 

Marred, so he made it again, and again; 

Shaped it from laughter and labor and pain, 

From hopes that withered and hopes fulfilled, 

From dreams forgotten and longings stilled; 

From rose and thorn and the gold of morn, 

From dark and bright and the stars of night, 

From joy and beauty and all delight; 

From flower and weed, from root and seed, 

From bird and river and tossing tree; 

From wind and fire and heart's desire, 

The pearl and the shell and the foam o' the sea; 

From the years that were and the years to be; 

And the Cup that He fashioned He gave to me.” 

and then she gives the purpose of the fashioning of the Cup. No one can 

read it without thinking of this life and its accomplishments. Surely the 

vessel was what God intended it to be. That vessel was to hold and to 

pour out the rivers of living water and truly Annie Johnson Flint has 

done this. And the closing stanza continues : 

"And the clay is Thine-O Potter-Thine; 

But the cup of life Thou hast made is mine 

To save or lose, to waste or use, 

For a poison drink or a draught divine; 

To hold it lightly and fling it away, 

Or give it for service every day; 

Page 


To leave it an empty and useless thing 

Or fill with the glory of ministering; 

The word of cheer and the kindly deed 

For passing pilgrim or childish need, 

Thy tender thought by suffering taught, 

With comfort and healing and power fraught, 

To lift and strengthen and help and bless 

The souls in sorrow and loneliness; 

The loving touch that means so much, 

The smile and the look of sympathy.- 

With these shall I fill this gift to me, 

Fill to the brim and running o'er, 

And into the world its treasure pour, 

Yet, giving ever, shall have the more, 

And through the nights and through the days 

I drink to His praise-to the Potter's praise 

Who gave the cup to me." 

Page 


Poems by Annie Johnson Flint 

PASSING THROUGH 

(Isaiah 43:1-2) 

“When Thou passest through the waters,” 

Deep the waves may be & cold, 

But JEHOVAH is our Refuge 

And His promise is our hold; 

For the LORD Himself hath said it, 

He the faithful God & true; 

“When thou comest to the waters, 

Thou shalt not go down, but through. 

Seas of sorrow, seas of trial, 

Bitterest anguish, fiercest pain, 

Rolling surges of temptation, 

Sweeping over heart & brain, 

They shall never overflow us, 

For we know His word is true; 

All His waves & all His billows 

He will lead us safely through. 

Threatening breakers of destruction, 

Doubt’s insidious undertow, 

Shall not sink us, shall not drag us 

Out to ocean depths of woe; 

For His promise shall sustain us, 

Praise the LORD, Whose word is true! 

We shall not go down or under, 

He hath said, “Thou passest through.” 

Page 


GREAT GRACE 

His grace is great enough to meet the great things, 

The crashing waves that overwhelm the soul, 

The roaring winds that leave us stunned and breathless, 

The sudden storms beyond our life's control. 

His grace is great enough to meet the small things, 

The little pin-prick troubles that annoy, 

The insect worries, buzzing and persistent, 

The squeaking wheels that grate upon our joy. 

New Every Morning 

Yea, "new every morning," though we may awake, 

Our hearts with old sorrow beginning to ache; 

With old work unfinished when night stayed our hand, 

With new duties waiting, unknown and unplanned; 

With old care still pressing, to fret and to vex, 

With new problems rising, our minds to perplex; 

In ways long familiar, in paths yet untrod, 

Oh, new every morning the mercies of God! 

His faithfulness fails not; it meets each new day 

With guidance for every new step of the way; 

New grace for new trials, new trust for old fears, 

New patience for hearing the wrongs of the years, 

New strength for new burdens, new courage for old, 

New faith for whatever the day may unfold; 

As fresh for each need as the dew on the sod; 

Oh, new every morning are the mercies of God! 

Page 


Better Than My Best 

I prayed for strength, and then I lost awhile 

All sense of nearness, human and divine; 

The love I leaned on failed and pierced my heart, 

The hands I clung to loosed themselves from mine; 

But while I swayed, weak, trembling, and alone, 

The everlasting arms upheld my own. 

I prayed for light; the sun went down in clouds, 

The moon was darkened by a misty doubt, 

The stars of heaven were dimmed by earthly fears, 

And all my little candle flames burned out; 

But while I sat in shadow, wrapped in night, 

The face of Christ made all the darkness bright. 

I prayed for peace, and dreamed of restful ease, 

A slumber drugged from pain, a hushed repose; 

Above my head the skies were black with storm, 

And fiercer grew the onslaught of my foes; 

But while the battle raged, and wild winds blew, 

I heard His voice and perfect peace I knew. 

I thank Thee, Lord, Thou wert too wise to heed 

My feeble prayers, and answer as I sought, 

Since these rich gifts Thy bounty has bestowed 

Have brought me more than all I asked or thought; 

Giver of good, so answer each request 

With Thine own giving, better than my best. 

Page 


Martha and Mary 

Martha was busy and hurried, 

Serving the Friend divine, 

Cleansing the cups and the platters, 

Bringing the bread and the wine; 

But Martha was careful and anxious 

Fretted in thought and in word, 

She had no time to be learning 

While she was serving the Lord, 

For Martha was "cumbered" with serving, 

Martha was "troubled" with "things" - 

Those that would pass with the using - 

She was forgetting her wings. 

But Mary was quiet and peaceful, 

Learning to love and to live. 

Mary was hearing His precepts, 

Mary was letting Him give - 

Give of the riches eternal, 

Treasures of mind and of heart; 

Learning the mind of the Master, 

Choosing the better part. 

Do we ever labor at serving 

Till voices grow fretful and shrill, 

Forgetting how to be loving, 

Forgetting how to be still? 

Do we strive for "things" in possession, 

And toil for the perishing meat, 

Neglecting the one thing needful - 

Sitting at Jesus' feet? 

Service is good when He asks it, 

Page 


Labor is right in its place, 

But there is one thing better - 

Looking up into His face; 

There is so much He would tell us, 

Truths that are precious and deep; 

This is the place where He wants us, 

These are the things we can keep. 

According to the Power 

If our scanty measure were used, 

How poor were the gifts of the Lord; 

If our cups of thought and our pitchers of prayer 

Were all that His love could afford. 

But - above all our stammering tongues 

Can voice of our deepest desire, 

Abundant above all the pitiful good 

To which our small minds can aspire; 

Exceeding abundant above 

The reach of our groveling thought; 

So great is the fulness of knowledge and grace 

His power to usward hath wrought. 

The Star Of Bethlehem 

Not to the king the Star, 

Flaming in light afar; 

Not to the king on his throne apart, 

With fear and hate in his evil heart, 

Page 


Speaking smoothly with lying ruse 

To find the new-born King of the Jews; 

Not to the king the flame, 

The light and the glory came. 

Not to the seers the Star, 

Shedding its beams afar; 

Not to the seers with their downbent looks, 

Poring over their ancient books, 

Searching where and pondering when, 

He should be born who is Saviour of men; 

Not to the seers the flame, 


Not to the sword the Star, 

Glowing and bright afar; 

Not to the sword that sought where He lay, 

Callous and cruel and eager to slay; 

Never were bearers of sword so led 

Where helpless and innocent blood was shed; 

Not to the sword the flame, 


But to the wise the Star, 

Lighting their path afar; 

Unto the wise who truly sought, 

With reverent worship and loving thought, 

These to the Child the Star could bring, 

To lay their gifts at the feet of the King; 

Unto the wise the flame, 


Page 


The Pruned Branch 

It is the branch that bears the fruit, 

That feels the knife; 

To prune it for a larger growth, 

A fuller life, 

Though every budding twig be lopped, 

And every grace 

Of swaying tendril, springing leaf 

Be lost a space. 

O thou, whose life of joy seems reft, 

Of beauty shorn, 

Whose aspirations lie in dust, 

All bruised and torn, 

Rejoice, though each desire, each dream, 

Each hope of thine, 

Shall fall and fade; it is the hand 

Of love divine 

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks 

With tenderest touch, 

That thou, whose life has borne some fruit 

May now bear much. 

The Wall and the Hedge 

The devil may wall you round 

But he cannot roof you in; 

He may fetter your feet and tie your hands 

And strive to hamper your soul with bands 

Page 


As his way has always been; 

But he cannot hide the face of God, 

And the Lord shall be your Light, 

And your eyes and your thoughts can rise to the sky, 

Where His clouds and His winds and His birds go by, 

And His stars shine out at night. 

The devil may wall you round; 

He may rob you of all things dear, 

He may bring his hardest and roughest stone 

And think to cage you and keep you alone, 

But he may not press too near; 

For the Lord has planted a hedge inside, 

And has made it strong and tall, 

A hedge of living and growing green; 

And ever it mounts and keeps between 

The trusting soul and the devil's wall. 

The devil may wall you round, 

But the Lord's hand covers you -- 

And His hedge is a thick and thorny hedge, 

And the devil can find no entering wedge 

Nor get his fingers through; 

He may circle about you all day long, 

But he cannot work as he would, 

For the will of the Lord restrains his hand, 

And he cannot pass the Lord's command 

And his evil turns to good. 

The devil may wall you round 

With his gray stones, row on row; 

But the green of the hedge is fresh and fair, 

And within its circle is space to spare, 

And room for your soul to grow; 

Page 


The wall that shuts you in 

May be hard and high and stout, 

But the Lord is sun and the Lord is dew, 

And His hedge is coolness and shade for you, 

And no wall can shut Him out. 

But God 

I know not, but God knows; 

Oh, blessed rest from fear! 

All my unfolding days 

To Him are plain and clear. 

Each anxious, puzzled "Why?" 

From doubt or dread that grows, 

Finds answer in this thought; 

I know not, but He knows. 

I cannot, but God can; 

Oh, balm for all my care! 

The burden that I drop 

His hand will lift and bear, 

Though eagle pinions tire -- 

I walk where once I ran -- 

This is my strength, to know 

I cannot, but God can. 

I see not, but God sees; 

Oh, all-sufficient light! 

My dark and hidden way 

To Him is always bright. 

Page 


My strained and peering eyes 

May close in restful ease, 

And I in peace may sleep; 

I see not, but He sees. 

It Is Jesus 

There is a Voice through Earth's wild clamor calling, 

To all the heavy laden and oppressed, 

Sweet as the cooling dew at even falling; 

"Come unto Me and rest." 

 

It is the voice of Jesus still entreating, 

To all the comfortless and all the sad; 

Day after day His tender call repeating, 

"Come unto Me and I will make you glad 

There is a Hand outstretched in tenderest pity, 

Where all the weary and the wandering roam, 

Waiting to lead them to the heavenly city, 

To bring the homeless Home. 

 

It is the hand of Jesus, still upholding, 

Strong to deliver, mighty still to keep; 

And none shall pluck from out that safe enfolding, 

The weakest one of all His blood-bought sheep. 

There is a Form that walks life's stormy ocean, 

Bidding the noise of wind and tempest cease; 

Crying along through all the wild commotion, 

"In Me ye shall have peace." 

 

Oh, it is Jesus coming o'er the waters, 

As once He walked the waves of Galilee, 

Page 


Speaking to all earth's shipwrecked sons and daughters, 

"Be not afraid; have faith, have faith in Me." 

There is a Love that longs with deep affection 

To gather all the sin-sick sons of men, 

Beneath its wings of shelter and protection, 

And give them health again. 

 

It is the love of Jesus, sweet with longing, 

His full salvation to the world to give; 

Crying to all the dead, earth's highways thronging, 

"Come unto Me, come unto Me and live.” 

FAITHFUL IS HE WHO HAS PROMISED 

Are you passing through a testing. 

Is your pillow wet with tears? 

Do you wonder what the reason, 

Why it seems God never hears? 

Why it is you have no answer 

To your oft, repeated plea, 

Why the heaven still is leaden 

As you wait on bended knee? 

Do you wonder as you suffer, 

Whether God does understand, 

And if so, why He ignores you, 

Fails to hold you in His Hand? 

Do black doubts creep in, assail you, 

Fears without--and fears within, 

Till your brave heart almost falters 

And gives way to deadly sin? 

All God's testings have a purpose, 

Someday you will see the light. 

Page 


All He asks is that you trust Him, 

Walk by faith and not by sight. 

Do not fear when doubts beset you, 

Just remember - He is near; 

He will never, never leave you, 

He will always, always hear. 

Faithful is He who has promised, 

He will never let you fall, 

Daily will the strength be given 

Strength for each and strength for all. 

He will gladly share pain with you, 

He will gladly give you peace. 

Till your tired and weary body 

Finds its blessed, glad release. 

When the darkened veil is lifted, 

Then, dear heart, you'll understand 

Why it is you had to suffer, 

Why you could not feel His hand 

Giving strength when it was needed, 

Giving power and peace within 

Giving joy thru tears and trial, 

Giving victory over sin. 

So till then just keep on trusting, 

Thru the sunshine and the rain. 

For What We Are Watching 

It is not for a sign we are watching… 

For wonders above and below 

The pouring out of vials of judgment, 

The sounding of trumpets of woe; 

Page 


It is not for a day we are looking 

Nor even the time yet to be 

When the earth shall be filled with God's glory 

As the waters cover the sea; 

It is not for a king we are longing 

To make the world-kingdoms His own; 

It is not for a judge who shall summon 

The nations of earth to his throne. 

Not for these, though we know they are coming; 

They are but adjuncts of Him, 

Before whom all glory is clouded, 

Besides whom all splendor grows dim. 

We wait for the Lord, our beloved, 

Our Comforter, Master and Friend, 

The substance of all that we hope for, 

Beginning of faith and its end; 

We watch for our Savior and Bridegroom, 

Who loved us and made us his own; 

For Him we are looking and longing; 

For Jesus and Jesus alone. 

God's Thoughts and Mine 

The Hammer thoughts 

That pound and shatter peace; 

The Rodent thoughts 

That gnaw and will not cease; 

The Brier thoughts 

That pull and prick and scratch; 

The Rover thoughts 

That I can never catch; 

Page 


The Serpent thoughts 

That leave their lairs at night; 

The Shadow thoughts 

That dim the new day's light; 

These are my thoughts; 

Oh, take them, Lord, I pray, 

Out of my heart, 

And cast them far away; 

And in their stead 

Give me those thoughts of Thine, 

So crystal-clear, 

So holy, high and fine, 

That I shall grow 

By their pure grace enticed, 

Worthy to think 

The lovely thoughts of Christ. 

God's Orchestra 

The great Composer writes the theme 

And gives us each a part to play; 

To some a sweet and flowing air, 

Smooth and unbroken all the way; 

They pour their full heart's gladness out 

In notes of joy and service blent; 

But some He gives long bars of "rests," 

With idle voice and instrument. 

He who directs the singing spheres, 

Page 


The music of the morning stars, 

Needs, for His full creation's hymn, 

The quiet of the soundless bars. 

Be silent unto God, my soul, 

If this the score He writes for thee, 

And "hold the rest," play no false note 

To mar His perfect harmony. 

Yet be thou watchful for thy turn, 

Strike on the instant, true and clear, 

Lest from the grand, melodious whole 

Thy note be missing to His ear. 

Better Than My Best 

I prayed for strength, and then I lost awhile 

All sense of nearness, human and divine; 

The love I leaned on failed and pierced my heart, 

The hands I clung to loosed themselves from mine; 

But while I swayed, weak trembling, and alone, 

The everlasting arms upheld my own. 

I prayed for light; the sun went down in clouds, 

The moon was darkened by a misty doubt, 

The stars of heaven were dimmed by earthly fears, 

And all my little candle flames burned out; 

But while I sat in shadow, wrapped in night, 

The face of Christ made all the darkness bright. 

I prayed for peace, and dreamed of restful ease, 

A slumber free from pain, a hushed repose; 

Above my head the skies were black with storm, 

Page 


And fiercer grew the onslaught of my foes; 

But while the battle raged, and wild winds blew, 

I heard His voice and perfect peace I knew. 

I thank you, Lord, You were too wise to heed 

My feeble prayers, and answer as I sought, 

Since these rich gifts Your bounty has bestowed 

Have brought me more than all I asked or thought; 

Giver of good, so answer each request 

With your own giving, better than my best. 

He's Helping Me Now 

He's helping me now--this moment, 

Though I may not see it or hear, 

Perhaps by a friend far distant, 

Perhaps by a stranger near, 

Perhaps by a spoken message 

Perhaps by the printed word; 

In ways that I know and know not 

I have the help of the Lord. 

He's keeping me now--this moment, 

However I need it most, 

Perhaps by a single angel, 

Perhaps by a mighty host, 

Perhaps by the chain that frets me, 

Or the walls that shut me in; 

In ways that I know or know not 

He keeps me from harm and sin. 

He's guiding me now--this moment, 

In pathways easy or hard, 

Page 


Perhaps by a door wide open, 

Perhaps by a door fast barred, 

Perhaps by a joy withholden 

Perhaps by a gladness given; 

In ways that I know and know not, 

He's leading me up to heaven. 

He's using me now--this moment, 

And whether I go or stand, 

Perhaps by a plan accomplished 

Perhaps when he stays my hand, 

Perhaps by a word in season 

Perhaps by a silent prayer; 

In ways that I know and know not, 

His labor of love I share. 

The Prisoner of the Lord 

The great Apostle called himself 

"The prisoner of the Lord;" 

He was not held by Roman chains 

Nor kept in Caesar's ward; 

Constrained by love alone, 

By cords of kindness bound, 

The bondslave of the living Christ, 

True liberty he found. 

Oh, happy those who see 

In poverty and pain, 

In weakness and in toil, 

Their Father's golden chain; 

Who feel no prison walls 

Though shut in narrow ways, 

Page 


And though in darkness fettered fast 

Can still rejoice and praise; 

From sin's dread bondage bought, 

They own their Master's ward, 

They bear the brand of Christ, 

Blest prisoners of the Lord! 

His Billows 

They are God's billows, whether they go over us 

Hiding His face in smothering spray and foam, 

Or, smooth and sparkling, spread a path before us, 

And to our haven bear us safely home. 

They are God's billows, whether, for our succour, 

He walks across them, stilling all our fear, 

Or to our cry there comes nor aid nor answer, 

And in the lonely silence none is near. 

They are God's billows, whether we are toiling 

Through tempest-driven waves that never cease, 

While deep to deep with clamor loud is calling, 

Or at His word they hush themselves in peace. 

They are God's billows, whether He divides them, 

Making us walk dry shod where seas had flowed, 

Or lets tumultuous breakers surge about us 

Rushing unchecked across our only road. 

They are God's billows, and He brings us through them; 

So has He promised, so His love will do; 

Keeping and leading, guiding and upholding, 

To His sure harbor, He will bring us through. 

Page 


One Day at a Time 

One day at a time, with its failures and fears, 

With its hurts and mistakes, with its weakness and tears, 

With its portion of pain and its burden of care; 

One day at a time we must meet and must bear. 

One day at a time to be patient and strong, 

To be calm under trial and sweet under wrong; 

Then its toiling shall pass and its sorrow shall cease; 

It shall darken and die, and the night shall bring peace. 

One day at a time - but the day is so long, 

And the heart is not brave, and the soul is not strong, 

O Thou pitiful Christ, be Thou near all the way; 

Give courage and patience and strength for the day. 

Swift cometh His answer, so clear and so sweet; 

"Yea, I will be with thee, thy troubles to meet; 

I will not forget thee, nor fail thee, nor grieve; 

I will not forsake thee; I never will leave." 

Not yesterday's load we are called on to bear, 

Nor the morrow's uncertain and shadowy care; 

Why should we look forward or back with dismay? 

Our needs, as our mercies, are but for the day. 

One day at a time, and the day is His day; 

He hath numbered its hours, though they haste or delay. 

His grace is sufficient; we walk not alone; 

As the day, so the strength that He giveth His own. 

Page 


Show Us Thy Grace 

Show us our need, O Lord; how lost, how hopeless, 

How poor, how sunk in sin our carnal hearts; 

Show us how vain to change our sad condition, 

Our best endeavor and our utmost arts; 

Show us how weak we are, and how dependent, 

How multiplied defeats our pride abase; 

And then -- O Lord, lest we despair too wholly — 

Show us Thy grace! 

Show us Thy grace, the great, the all-sufficient, 

Infinite riches for our poverty, 

Mercy of God for uttermost salvation, 

Weapon that turns defeat to victory; 

Gladness unspeakable and full of glory, 

Beyond our needs, a vast unmeasured space. 

Lord, as we never yet have seen or known it, 

Show us Thy grace! 

Shut In 

Shut in - shut in from the ceaseless din 

Of the restless world, and its' wants and sin; 

Shut in from its' turmoil, care and strife 

And all the wearisome round of life. 

Shut in, with tears that are spent in vain, 

With the dull companionship of pain; 

Shut in with the changeless days and hours, 

And the bitter knowledge of failing powers. 

Page 


Shut in with a trio of virtues sweet -- 

Patience and Grace all pain to meet, 

With Faith that can suffer and stand and wait, 

And lean on the promises strong and great! 

Shut in with Christ! Oh, wonderful thought! 

Shut in with the peace His sufferings brought; 

Shut in with the love that wields the rod -- 

Oh, company blest! Shut in with God! 

Nevertheless Afterward 

I was so happy in my lot, 

I was so glad of work or play, 

I only asked that I might walk 

With others on life's common way; 

My Father let the sorrows come 

That blotted out the sunlit skies, 

That stopped the toil of busy hands 

And turned my laughter into sighs. 

I was so sorrowful, so spent, 

I only asked to dwell apart, 

And in the silence and the dark 

To nurse my bruised and broken heart; 

My Father came and took my hand 

And led me forth in paths unknown, 

He filled my days with crowding cares, 

He would not let me weep alone. 

But, looking backward now, I know 

How wise and kind He was to me, 

Page 


The clouds all gone, the shadows fled, 

His glorious afterward I see; 

If He had left me to myself 

I know the joys I should have lost, 

The good that I had lacked or missed, 

How much I gained, how small the cost. 

And shall I doubt His love today 

Because once more the mists arise, 

Because His hand, though leading still, 

Is hidden from my blinded eyes? 

Nay, help me to remember, Lord, 

As 'neath the chastening rod I bow, 

Thy wondrous dealing past, and trust 

Thine afterward for this dark now. 

The Bridge Of The Cross 

Man fain would build a bridge to God 

Across the fathomless abyss 

That lies between his earth-bound soul 

And heaven's perfect bliss. 

He takes his knowledge, small and vague, 

The great inventions he has wrought, 

His mightiest efforts, finest plans, 

And his profoundest thought: 

He binds them with his strands of straw, 

His strings of tow, his ropes of sand, 

With all the power and the skill 

Of cunning brain and hand. 

Page 


Through swirling mists he strains his eye, 

Above the unseen torrent's roar 

He pushes forth the makeshift thing 

And hopes to touch the shore. 

But when he seeks to cross the chasm 

With eager heart and step elate, 

He finds his bridge too short to reach, 

Too frail to bear his weight. 

Oh, baseless dream! Oh, useless toil! 

Oh, utter and eternal loss! 

For God has laid, to span the void, 

His Son upon the cross. 

And when man's broken bridges fall, 

And sink into the gulf at last, 

Still wide and long and safe and strong, 

The bridge of God stands fast. 

In a Small Place 

Fret not because thy place is small, 

Thy service need not be, 

For thou canst make it all there is 

Of joy and ministry. 

The dewdrop, as the boundless sea, 

In God's great place has part; 

And this is all He asks of thee; 

Be faithful where thou art. 

In thee His mighty hand can show 

Page 


The wonders of His grace, 

And He can make the humblest room 

A high and holy place. 

Thy life can know the blessedness 

Of resting in His will; 

His fulness flows unceasingly 

Thy cup of need to fill. 

His strength upon they weakness waits, 

His power for thy task. 

What more, O child of all His care, 

Could any great one ask? 

In Jesus 

In the world, tribulation; but in Jesus -- peace; 

The heart of the whirlwind where its roarings cease, 

A little home waiting, still and light and warm, 

A safe sanctuary from the night and storm. 

In the world, tribulation; but in Jesus -- rest; 

A sure place of refuge for the sore-opprest, 

A guarded pavilion no device can take, 

A strong-walled fortress no assault can shake. 

In the world tribulation; but in Jesus -- joy; 

A full cup of gladness that can never cloy, 

A sweet fountain rising out of Marrah's tide, 

A spring of rejoicing that is never dried. 

In the world, tribulation; but in Jesus -- peace; 

A deep, quiet harbor where the high waves cease, 

A long-desired haven on a friendly shore, 

Where the wild winds of oceans sweep the soul no more. 

Page 


In the world, tribulation, trials all around, 

For on earth no resting and no joys are found; 

Let us flee to Jesus where all sorrows cease; 

Here alone is gladness, here alone is peace. 

In Time of Need 

Not by my need alone I ask this token 

That Thou, O Lord, dost hear and heed my cry; 

But by Thy promise that cannot be broken, 

That all my need in Christ Thou wilt supply; 

Not by my love for Thee, so oft disproved, 

Not by my gifts to Thee, so poor and small, 

But by Thy love that gave Thy best-beloved, 

And with that one great Gift included all. 

Not by my faith I plead, for that can falter, 

Aye, and has faltered in the days gone by; 

But by Thy faithfulness that cannot alter, 

And by Thine ordered covenants on high, 

Set safe and sure above Time's brief duration, 

Beyond all change, eternally the same; 

By these I dare my fervent supplication, 

By Thy great mercies and Thy holy name. 

I Shall Dwell Forever 

"I shall dwell forever"; amid this world of change, 

Where our homesick spirits oft' feel sad and strange, 

Where the vacant places shall never more be filled, 

Where the ache of memory can never quite be stilled, 

Page 


Where the silent voices echo through life's empty room, 

Where the brightest skies of earth must know grief's cloud of gloom; 

Is any promise sweeter in our Father's blessed Word? 

"I shall dwell forever in the house of the Lord." 

We shall dwell forever; we shall never more go out, 

Never more be weary with wandering about; 

Never more be seeking for a place in which to rest, 

Never more be dreading "the stirring of the nest." 

How our hearts are turning, turning ever as we roam 

Toward the shining portals of our everlasting home! 

Is any promise sweeter in our Father's steadfast word? 

"I shall dwell forever in the house of the Lord." 

We shall dwell forever where warfare never comes, 

Shrilling of the trumpets or boding roll of drums; 

In a quiet resting place and in a land of peace, 

Where all pain and sorrows forevermore shall cease, 

In that abiding city of the rainbow-jewelled wall, 

Set on sure foundations that shall never shake or fall. 

Oh, the joy of looking past the things that pass away 

To a habitation where our tired feet may stay! 

Is any promise sweeter in all our Father's Word? 

"I shall dwell forever in the house of the Lord.” 

I Will Not Doubt 

I will not doubt, tho' all my ships at sea 

come drifting home with broken masts and sails; 

I will believe the hand which never fails, 

from seeming evil worketh good for me. 

Page 


And tho' I weep because those sails are tattered, 

Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered; 

-- I trust in Thee! 

I will not doubt, tho' all my prayers return 

unanswered from the still, white realm above; 

I will believe it is an all-wise love 

which has refused the things for which I yearn; 

And tho' at times I cannot keep from grieving, 

Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believing, 

--undimmed shall burn. 

I will not doubt, tho' sorrows fall like rain, 

and troubles swarm like bees above a hive, 

I will believe the heights for which I strive 

are only reached by anguish and by pain; 

And tho' I groan and writhe beneath my crosses, 

I yet shall see through my severest losses, 

-- the greater gain. 

I will not doubt. Well anchored is this faith, 

like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale; 

So strong its courage that it will not quail, 

to breast the mighty unknown sea of death. 

Oh, may I cry, tho' body parts with spirit, 

"I do not doubt," so listening worlds may hear it 

-- with my last breath. 

Much Fruit 

It is the branch that bears the fruit that feels the knife; 

To prune it for a larger growth, a fuller life. 

Page 


Though every budding twig be lopped, and every grace 

Of swaying tendril, springing leaf, be lost a space. 

O thou, whose life of joy seems reft of beauty - shorn, 

Whose aspirations lie in dust, all bruised and torn; 

Rejoice! Though each desire, each dream, each hope of thine, 

Shall fall and fade; it is the hand of Love Divine, 

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks with tenderest touch, 

That thou, whose life has borne some fruit may'st now bear much! 

Not Down, But Through 

"When Thou passest through the waters," 

Deep the waves may be and cold, 

But Jehovah is our refuge, 

And his promise is our hold; 

For the Lord himself has said it, 

He, the faithful God and true; 

"When you come to the waters 

You will not go down, but through." 

Seas of sorrow, Seas of trial, 

Bitter anguish, fiercest pain, 

Rolling surges of temptation 

Sweeping over heart and brain… 

They will never overflow us 

For we know His work is true; 

All His waves and all His billows 

He will lead us safely through. 

Page 


Threatening breakers of destruction, 

Doubt's insidious undertow, 

Will not sink us, will not drag us 

Out to ocean depths of woe; 

For His promise will sustain us, 

Praise the Lord, whose word is true! 

We will not go down, or under, 

For He says, "You will pass through.” 

The Way of the Cross 

Some of us stay at the Cross, 

Some of us wait at the tomb, 

Quickened and raised with Christ 

Yet lingering still in the gloom. 

Some of us bide at the Passover Feast 

With Pentecost all unknown: 

The triumphs of grace in the heavenly place 

That our Lord has made our own. 

If Christ who had died had stopped at the Cross, 

His work had been incomplete. 

If Christ who was buried had stayed in the tomb, 

He had only known defeat. 

But the Way of the Cross never stops at the Cross, 

And the way of the tomb leads on 

To victorious Grace in the heavenly place, 

Where the Risen Lord has gone. 

Page 


When I Think of Thee 

When I think of just myself and my little cares, 

Looming large and crowding close, hindering my prayers, 

Of my weakness and my sins, I am sore depressed; 

Weary, weary grows my thought; I can find no rest. 

When I think upon the world and its many woes - 

Hunger, misery and crime - how the long list grows! 

Greed and hatred and unrest, strifes that never cease, 

Weary, weary grows my thought; I can find no peace. 

When I meditate on Thee and Thy works, O Lord, 

On Thy strength and majesty, on Thy changeless word; 

On Thy Steadfast faithfulness, reaching to the sky; 

On Thy patient, watchful care over such as I; 

On Thine everlasting love, high and strong and deep; 

On Thy wisdom and Thy truth and Thy power to keep; 

When I think of what Thou art and what Thy power has done; 

When I number all the gifts given in Thy Son -- 

I forget the things that pass in the things that bide, 

And my soul can rest in peace, fed and satisfied. 

The Double Clasp 

The Saviour's hand - how close its hold, 

That none can loosen, none can break. 

No powers of heaven or earth or hell 

That loving clasp can ever shake. 

And over Jesus' wounded hand 

The Father's hand of strength is laid, 

Omnipotent to save and keep; 

Thus is our surety surer made. 

Page 


So, one beneath and one above, 

Father and Son their hands unite. 

How safe, how safe the ransomed are 

Within that clasp of tender might! 

The Way to God 

No tower man can build him will ever rise to God, 

For his foundations crumble ere half the stairs are trod; 

No wireless spark, far-flashing its message through the air, 

Can bring the seeking sinner an answer to his prayer; 

No bridge of his contriving can cross the awful space 

Between the guilty spirit and God's forgiving grace; 

No airship of his making can be so swiftly driven, 

Or plume so bold a pinion as once to soar to heaven; 

No lamp of his devising can send one cheering ray 

Along death's gloomy vista or through the grave's dark way; 

No road of his constructing can ever stretch so far 

That he can travel on it to reach the nearest star; 

Too weak are man's inventions, too short to reach the goal, 

All vain for his salvation and useless to his soul. 

Oh, changeless name of Jesus! This is the tower that stands, 

Its firm foundation resting below Time's shifting sands; 

Oh, precious blood of Jesus! This is the voice that speaks 

God's word of love and pardon to ever heart that seeks; 

Oh, blessed cross of Jesus! This is the bridge that's given 

To span the dreadful chasm between man's soul and heaven; 

Oh, wondrous wounds of Jesus! His nail-pierced hands alone 

Can bear the sinner's ransom up to His Father's throne; 

Oh, empty tomb of Jesus! This holds a glory bright 

That fills death's shadowed valley with resurrection light; 

Page 


Oh, mighty love of Jesus! His feet alone have trod 

Earth's heights and depths of sorrow and made a way to God. 

The Things of God 

Oh, wonderful love that takes me, 

Though wretched and stained with sin! 

Oh, marvellous grace that makes me 

All holy and pure within! 

Oh, mighty power that holds me, 

A helper forever near! 

Oh, perfect peace that folds me 

In danger and storm and fear! 

Oh, jubilant joy sustaining 

My faltering steps to the last! 

Oh, rapturous rest remaining 

When toiling and tears are past! 

Oh, matchless mercy that rates me 

Joint-heirs with the sinless Son! 

Oh, golden glory that waits me 

When tempests and clouds are done! 

All things are mine, for I am His; 

Oh, infinite gifts divine! 

God gave His Son, His only one; 

And all that He has is mine. 

Page 


The Threefold Promise 

Oh, wonderful promises given 

To those who wait on the Lord; 

Strength for the faint who have fallen, 

Power for weakness outpoured. 

Blessed the threefold assurance 

Thrilling the soul like a song: 

They shall mount up as the eagles 

On wide wings and swift wings and strong; 

Run with the stride of the racer, 

Leaping unwearied and free, 

Till he comes to the end of his journey 

And the crown of his effort shall see. 

But the word for the worn and the weary, 

Who know not the rapture of wings, 

Who know not the joy of the runner, 

What infinite comfort it brings! 

Walk and not faint; the slow steppings, 

The plodding dull round of the days, 

The toil and the heat and the burdens, 

The wearying halts and delays. 

Oh, promise for those who are walking, 

Who falter and stumble and fall, 

The courage, the strength and the patience, 

This is the sweetest of all. 

Page 


The Threefold Work 

Three things the Master hath to do, 

And we who serve Him here below 

And long to see His kingdom come, 

May pray or give or go. 

He needs them all - the open hand, 

The willing feet, the asking heart - 

To work together and to weave 

The threefold cord that shall not part. 

Nor shall the giver count his gift 

As greater than the worker’s need, 

Nor he in turn his service boast 

Above the prayers that voice his need. 

Not all can go, nor all can give 

To arm the other for the fray; 

But young or old or rich or poor, 

Or strong or weak - we all can pray. 

Pray that the full hands open wide 

To speed the message on its way, 

That those who hear the call may go 

And pray - that other hearts may pray 

These Shall Find 

The steady hand can never find the deep things of the Lord; 

The undimmed eyes can never see the comfort in His Word; 

The joyous heart can never know the healing of His love; 

The learned mind can never grasp the wisdom from above. 

Page 


But, oh, the trembling hand clasps His and loses all its fear; 

The weeping eyes can search His Word and read His promise clear; 

The broken heart rests in His love until its faith prevails; 

The childlike mind can reach the source where wisdom never fails. 

The Measures of God 

His wrath the seven vials hold, 

The seven trumps His judgments sound; 

But what can span the love of God, 

And what His goodness bound? 

The seven woes shall have an end, 

The seven plagues His hand shall stay: 

But when shall His compassions fail, 

His kindness pass away? 

The dust of earth He measures out, 

He numbers all the stars of space, 

His mighty scales the mountains weigh; 

But what can weigh His grace? 

His fingers spread the heavens forth, 

He cups the seas within His hand; 

But who His mercies can compute; 

Unnumbered as the sand? 

The wickedness of men shall pass, 

And death shall die, and wars shall cease; 

But still His covenant shall stand 

Of righteousness and peace. 

Page 


And when men's measured thread is spun, 

His finished tale of days is told, 

When all earth's numbered years are done 

And Time itself grows old, 

Then shall God's long eternities 

Their unmarked course have yet to run, 

And His uncounted eon-hours 

Be only just begun. 

The Gardener 

While we are tending our earthly gardens, 

The Gardener lends us His seeds to sow, 

The bulbs of His lilies, the roots of His roses, 

To plant and cherish and watch them grow. 

Sometimes He comes when the day is over 

And garners a sheaf of the full-grown wheat, 

Ripe for the harvest and waiting the sickle, 

Ready to fall at the Reaper's feet. 

And sometimes He comes in the early morning 

And tenderly gathers the sweetest flowers, 

The buds of the lily, the rose half-openend: 

Shall we not joy when He chooses ours? 

Shall we not yield God our loveliest blossoms, 

Glad that He finds them so fragrant and fair, 

Worthy transplanting to heavenly gardens, 

To gain new beauty beneath His care? 

Page 


Never a storm shall sweep over His flowers, 

Nor drought shall wither, nor frost shall blight; 

About His feet they shall grow unfading, 

And bloom forever in His pure sight. 

The New Prayer 

Long have I prayed this prayer to Thee - 

According to my need, give me 

A little strength from day to day, 

A little light along the way, 

A little trust when fears are nigh, 

A little peace when waves run high, 

And with Thy love and joy fill up 

The blessing in my little cup. 

So have I prayed for long, but now - 

According to Thy grace, give Thou! 

Of my small measure take no heed, 

Above, around my puny need 

Pour out the treasures of Thy good, 

Let Thy great goodness, like a flood, 

My meager life fill and o'erflow 

Till I unto Thy gifts shall grow, 

Give joy exceeding all I sought, 

And love beyond mine utmost thought; 

Thy riches for my poverty, 

According to Thy grace, give me. 

Page 


The Gray Days of November 

The gray days of November 

No plaint from me shall win; 

I shut the fog and mist all out, 

And shut the fire-shine in; 

I draw my chair the closer 

To where its warm glow cheers, 

And, dreaming in the firelight, 

Dream back across the years. 

No happier days, no better, 

My lost youth gave to me, 

With flowers in every meadow 

And songs from every tree; 

That was the time of growing; 

This is the time of rest; 

Bloom falls, but fruiting follows, 

And each in turn is best. 

God giveth of His glory 

An ever-changing view; 

The old things pass forever; 

He maketh all things new; 

Life knoweth here no beauty 

That shall not fade away; 

Some better things He sendeth, 

And these are mine today. 

Mine is the riper wisdom 

That comes with graying hair; 

Mine is the fuller knowledge 

Of God's great love and care; 

Mine is the clearer vision; 

Page 


Mine is the wider view; 

And mine the hoarded memories 

Of friendships kind and true. 

Mine is the steadier patience 

To bear the ills of life; 

Mine is the sturdier courage 

To meet the daily strife; 

Mine is the faith serener 

Than ever youth could know 

To walk the way appointed 

Through sunshine or through snow. 

The gray days lead to white days 

Of peace and silence deep, 

A stiller hush of resting 

When Earth and I shall sleep; 

And then - a glorious waking 

When broken ties all mend. 

Through gray days of November 

I wait the long year's end 

The Burden of Israel 

Behold, thou art a burden, O house of Israel, 

A curse among the nations wherever thou dost dwell, 

They hate thee and they fear thee as all the world can tell. 

Thou art a fire, O Jacob, among the forest leaves; 

A flame of fear devouring, a torch among the sheaves; 

A trouble to the countries, for which the whole earth grieves. 

A thorn art thou, O Judah, a terror to the lands, 

Page 


Sharp stone and rock of stumbling that cuts the meddler's hands, 

A snare to the oppressor who binds thee with his bands. 

Thou art a cup of trembling, Jerusalem, today; 

The mighty men are gathered, the battle in array, 

The Gentile hosts assembled, that God may have His way. 

A joy unto the nations, O Judah, thou shalt be, 

When out of all the countries the Lord hath gathered thee, 

And thou shalt be a blessing from sea to farthest sea. 

Follow Thou Me 

 

Follow not go ahead at thine own pleasure, 

Nor turn aside at thine own wayward will, 

Nor stray afar in search of other treasure, 

But close at hand, where I can aid thee still; 

Across the sea and through the desert places, 

Onward and upward by the one sure way, 

Till thou shalt sit with me in heavenly places 

Amid the splendors of eternal day. 

 

And follow thou; for thee my call is sounded; 

All that I suffered~was it not for thee? 

For thee my soul was bruised, my body wounded, 

I died, from sin and death to set thee free; 

No other hand could write thine own life-story, 

No other make thy choice of gain or loss, 

No other win and wear thy crown of glory, 

No other lift and bear thy destined cross. 

 

Follow thou me though stranger voices hail thee, 

Page 


I am the way and there is none beside; 

There is no other staff that shall not fail thee, 

There is no other eye than mine to guide; 

There is no other shepherd who can fold thee 

By such still waters, in such pastures fair; 

There is no other arm can safely hold thee 

In doubt and danger, darkness and despair. 

 

Trust me to lead thee home to God and heaven; 

What others do or say is naught to thee; 

No other light, no other truth, is given; 

Follow follow thou follow me. 

Count It Done 

A father wrote to his son, 

Who was faraway from home; 

“I have sent you a beautiful gift, 

It may be delayed, but ‘twill come; 

It is what you have wanted most, 

And have asked for many days;” 

And before the child received the gift 

He voiced his thanks and praise. 

Our Father saith unto us: 

“Your need shall be supplied; 

Ask and receive that your joy be filled, 

And My joy in you abide.” 

Shall we wait to thank till we see 

The answer to every prayer? 

Forbear to praise till we feel 

Page 


The lifted pressure of care? 

Nay, let us trust His word 

And know that the thing is done, 

For His promise is just as sure 

As a father’s to his son. 

Counted Worthy 

This weighty burden thou dost bear, 

This heavy cross, 

It is a gift the Lord bestows, 

And not a loss; 

It is a trust that He commits 

Unto thy care, 

A precious lesson He has deigned 

With thee to share. 

Rejoice that He so honors thee 

And so esteems 

Of highest worth; the crown of thorns 

With Him to wear, 

And all the suffering of that crown 

With Him to bear, 

That by and by His glory, too, 

With Him thou’lt share. 

For All the Morrows 

Has the year brought sadness? 

Joy is yet in store. 

Page 


Has it given gladness? 

Next year giveth more. 

Let your Father measure 

All your pain and care, 

Let Him weigh the burden 

That your heart must bear, 

Sending light or shadow 

As He deemeth best, 

For in His sure wisdom 

You can safely rest. 

Peace for all the morrows, 

Strength for all the days, 

These shall be your portion 

Through the New Year's ways 

God's Shut-ins 

Ferns are the "shut-ins" of God's flower kingdom, 

Hidden in the mossy dells and cool retreats; 

Their lace-like fronds uncurl in fresh, green beauty 

Far from the busy world and dusty streets. 

They bear no gorgeous flowers of gold or crimson, 

No dainty blooms of blue or pearly white; 

Their graceful leaves exhale no strong, sweet odor, 

Their very seeds are hidden from our sight. 

And yet, sometimes, to eyes that tire of brightness, 

To senses sated with the rich perfume, 

How grateful is the cool green of the fern-leaves 

Set in the silence of some shaded room. 

Can we not learn from them some blessed lesson, 

Page 


We, who, like them, are growing in the shade? 

Their lovely freshness is a constant beauty, 

Dewy and sweet when summer blossoms fade. 

When others come, who, dwelling in the sunshine, 

Have grown a-weary of the toil and strife, 

Can we not share with them our calm and quiet - 

Show them the beauty of a hidden life? 

May we not give to them some tender message, 

Some of the garnered peace we hold in store, 

Some of the songs God giveth in the midnight, 

When sleep flies from us and the pain is sore? 

They walk with hurrying steps Life's busy highway, 

Often the still, small voice they cannot hear; 

But we can listen in the restful stillness 

Its words of faith and hope and gladsome cheer. 

We dwell in safety in our Lord's green pastures, 

Our souls at rest the quiet waters by; 

Willing to be since we may not be doing, 

Living epistles, open to the eye. 

Our frail lives hidden in His strength eternal, 

Guarded and shielded from the tempest's shock, 

The wild winds pass us by - they cannot harm us 

Where we are sheltered by our Fortress Rock. 

Sometimes, perhaps, the ferns may long to blossom, 

Even as we to see our work's reward; 

Impatient of the stillness and the shadow, 

Envy the roses on the sunny sward. 

Page 


"Foolish!" we say, "the dust and heat would kill them, 

That sweet, cool shadow is their very life," 

Yes - and, God knows, perhaps our spirit's beauty, 

Might, like them, wither in the great world's strife. 

So He doth keep us, set apart in shadow, 

Far from the lovely garden's sunny sod; 

And why He does it we shall know hereafter, 

"Be still," He says, "and know that I am God!" 

Can we not trust our loving heavenly Father 

To do the very best that can be done, 

Though one be planted in the glowing sunlight, 

Set in the silence and the shadow - one? 

Be we content to say our word in secret, 

Content to wear our garb of sober green, 

And, while the world is praising other workers, 

Our tiny seeds cast out, though all unseen. 

We may not show our love and zeal by labor, 

Our hands are folded, though they tire of rest; 

Fettered the feet that fain would run His errands, 

Willing and swift. But yet, He knoweth best 

Just the conditions which will suit our growing, 

Just the environment we best may stand; 

For the green ferns the cool depths of the forest, 

And for our shade the "shadow of His hand.” 

Page 


The Grace of God 

"My grace," 'tis the God of all grace who hath spoken, 

Whose word in the heavens forever is set; 

Whose covenant promise hath never been broken; 

Who never can fail or forget; 

Who knoweth my needs and who seeth my sorrows, 

However so many and great they may be; 

Who heareth my prayers for the days and the morrows; 

His grace is sufficient for me. 

"My grace;" all His blessings this work is unfolding, 

His love and His power in harmony blend; 

'Tis grace that hath saved me, and grace that is holding, 

And grace that will keep to the end; 

'Tis grace that hath written redemption's glad story, 

And grace all the song of the ransomed shall be; 

'Tis grace that transforms me from glory to glory; 

That grace is sufficient for me. 

"My grace is," not "was," and not "will be;" 'tis flowing 

Each hour and each moment my need to supply, 

The deeper I dip, still the deeper 'tis growing, 

No drought can diminish or dry; 

My heart from the future no trouble shall borrow; 

Eternal this present provision shall be, 

Assured for today and as sure for tomorrow, 

Such grace is sufficient for me. 

"My grace is sufficient." Oh, help without measure! 

An ocean of riches no plummet can sound, 

A storehouse unfailing of infinite treasure, 

A gift without limit or bound; 

Exceeding abundant for all His creation, 

Page 


Enough for the thorn that is buffeting me, 

The fulness of God for earth's brief tribulation - 

"My grace is sufficient for thee." 

"Sufficient for thee," for my utmost salvation, 

As though ne'er another had owed Him a debt; 

For my special grief and my special temptation, 

My cares and my sins that beset; 

He giveth more grace for my humble endeavour; 

I am praising Him now, I shall praise Him forever; 

His grace is sufficient for me. 

God's Will Be Done 

"His Will Be Done," 

We say with sighs and trembling, 

Expecting trial, bitter loss and tears. 

And then how doth He answer us? 

With blessings, 

And sweet rebuking of our faithless fears. 

God's Will is peace and plenty 

And the power to be, 

And have the best that He can give: 

A mind to serve Him, a heart to love, 

And faith to die and the strength to live. 

It means for us all good, 

All grace, all glory; 

His Kingdom coming and on Earth begun. 

Why should we fear to say, 

"His Will, His righteous, 

His tender, loving, joyous Will be done!"? 

Page 


Apple Blossoms 

God might have clothed the apple trees 

In scentless brown of gray -- 

Such frail and fleeting blossoming, 

So soon to pass away -- 

Instead of this fair springtime garb 

Of fragrant pink and pearl, 

That flutters down like rosy snow 

On every breeze a-whirl. 

His goodness gives the pleasant fruit 

On laden boughs down-bent; 

His lovingkindness adds the bloom, 

Its beauty and its scent. 

He loads us with His benefits 

Until no want we know, 

And then He sends the little more 

That makes our cup o'erflow. 

He opens wide His hand of love; 

He gives no stingy dole; 

His tender mercies crown our days: 

O bless the Lord, my soul! 

He That Believeth 

He that believeth shall not make haste In useless hurry his strength to waste; 

Who walks with God can afford to wait, 

For he can never arrive too late. 

Page 


He that believeth shall not delay; Who carries the word of the King on its' 

way Keeps pace with Jehovah's marching tune, 

And he can never come too soon. 

He that believeth shall walk serene, With ordered steppings and leisured 

mien, He dwells in the midst of eternities, 

And the timeless ages of God are his. 

His and Mine 

My joy, a falling star, For one brief moment bright; 

But God's, the changeless firmament That holds a changeless light. 

My love, the ebb and flow Of ocean's restless tides; 

But His the towering cliff above That evermore abides. 

My trust, the spider's web, As gossamer, as frail; 

His word, the everlasting hills, Whose strength can never fail. 

My peace, a shallow pool, Soon brimmed and sooner dried; 

But God's, an ever-flowing stream With waters deep and wide. 

O rock! O steadfast hills! Far sky, and river free! 

Thy strength, Thy sure serenity, Thy quietness, give me. 

I See Jesus 

I don't look back: God knows the fruitless efforts, The wasted hours the 

sinning, the regrets; I leave them all with Him Who blots the record, 

And mercifully forgives, and then forgets. 

Page 


I don't look forward, God sees all the future, The road that, short or long, will 

lead me home, And He will face with me its every trial, 

And bear for me the burdens that may come. 

I don't look round me: then would fears assail me, So wild the tumult of 

earth's restless seas; So dark the world, so filled with woe and evil, 

So vain the hope of comfort or of ease. 

I don't look in; for then am I most wretched; Myself has naught on which to 

stay my trust; Nothing I see save failures and short-comings, 

And weak endeavors crumbling into dust. 

But I look up -- into the face of Jesus, For there my heart can rest, my fears 

are stilled. And there is joy, and love, and light for darkness, 

And perfect peace, and every hope fulfilled. 

A THANKSGIVING 

For all Thy blessings given there are many to thank Thee, Lord, 

But for the gifts withholden I fain would add my word. 

For good things I desired that barred me from the best, 

The peace at the price of honour, the sloth of a shameful rest; 

The poisonous sweets I longed for to my hungering heart denied, 

The staff that broke and failed me when I walked in the way of pride; 

The tinsel joys withheld that so content might still be mine, 

The help refused that might have made me loose my hand from Thine 

The light withdrawn that I might now see the dangers of my way; 

For what Thou has not given, I thank Thee, Lord today. 

Page 


The Empty Tomb 

A Mohommedan once said to a missionary: 

"We have our Prophet's tomb to show, 

but you have nothing.” 

Earth's Meccas and the faiths of men 

Hold but a corpse within a tomb; 

Each weary pilgrim's journey ends 

At some sad shrine of grief and gloom. 

Earth's prophets rest, in silence wrapped, 

Dust in the dust from whence they came; 

By Death's chill wind their torches quenched, 

No more to kindle into flame. 

Earth's priests in solemn splendor sleep, 

Ashes to ashes, robed and stoled; 

Their chanted prayers forever hushed, 

Their altar fires forever cold. 

Earth's kings in state and glory lie, 

In crypts of porphyry encased; 

Their names and deeds, in marble carved, 

Time's blurring touch has half erased. 

No mausoleum built by man 

Entombs our Prophet, Priest and King; 

Our love no pilgrimage need make, 

No fading votive garlands bring. 

Page 


No death could kill, no guard could keep, 

No seal could stay, no grave could hold 

Immortal Life in mortal clay; 

No darkness could the Light enfold. 

Our Prophet's word shall come to pass, 

Our Priest is interceding still; 

Our King shall reign forevermore, 

While heaven and earth shall do his will. 

"No grave to show"? This is the stone 

On which the temples of our faith 

Rise higher than the mosques of Ind; 

Our Living Lord has conquered Death! 

~ Annie Johnson Flint 

Revelation 1:18 

I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive 

for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death. 

Hebrews 10:12-14 

But this man, after he had offered one sacrifice for sins for ever, 

sat down on the right hand of God; From henceforth expecting till 

His enemies be made his footstool. For by one offering He hath 

perfected for ever them that are sanctified. 

Page 


The Little Doors 

Oh, strait and narrow is the door, 

The little door of loss, 

By which we enter in to Christ, 

The low door of the Cross; 

But when we put away our pride, 

And in contrition come, 

We find it is the only way 

That leads to God and Home. 

Oh, strait and lowly are the doors 

By which Christ comes to us; 

We bar the entrance gates of joy, 

And when He finds them thus, 

By strange, small doors of woe and want, 

Of trial and of pain, 

He enters in to share our lives 

To our eternal gain. 

The narrow doors He brings us to, 

The little doors and low, 

What large rooms they will open on, 

If we will only go; 

The strange, small doors of work and want, 

Strait doors of grief and pain, 

What riches they will lead us too, 

What everlasting gain! 

Matthew 7:14 Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, 

which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it. 

Page 


The Lonely Olive Mill 

There’s a peaceful vale in a sunny land 

Where the hills keep guard around, 

And the soft breeze stirs the olive trees 

And the grass that clothes the ground. 

And in the hush and solitude 

Where even the birds are still, 

There stands untended and alone 

An ancient olive mill. 

Through the long bright day the mill wheel turns 

And the fruit is crushed by the stone, 

And quietly drips the fragrant oil 

In silence and alone. 

But somewhere out in the circling hills, 

Unseen, unheard, unknown, 

The Master of the olive mill 

Is mindful of his own . . . 

O child of God, are you being crushed 

`Neath trial, pain or woe? 

No eye to pity, no ear to hear, 

No voice to whisper low? 

Alone in your Gethsemane, 

Christ watches with you there. 

He will not suffer one ounce of weight 

More than your strength can bear. 

He chasteneth but to purify; 

He crusheth but to raise; 

Page 


In love he worketh his blessed will 

To his glory’s endless praise. 

In our affliction, afflicted still 

He leaveth us not alone; 

He will not forget, he will not forsake, 

He is mindful of his own. 

- Annie Johnson Flint (abridged) 

Rest, Tired Heart 

Rest, tired heart, within those arms eternal, 

Like cradled child upon its father's breast; 

Oh, lean on Him who giveth to the weary, 

After the day is over, blessed rest. 

Rest, troubled heart, oppressed by care and sorrow, 

Let every fear and vague foreboding cease; 

Oh, rest in Him who giveth to the burdened, 

After the day is over, blessed peace. 

Rest, anxious heart, take no thought for the morrow, 

Thou needest not wake, for God His watch doth keep: 

Oh, rest in Him who giveth His beloved, 

After the day is over, blessed sleep. 

- Annie Johnson Flint (abridged) 

Page 


Annie Johnson Flint 

1866–1932 

Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness 

through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more 

precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found 

unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ: Whom having 

not seen, ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice 

with joy unspeakable and full of glory: ~1 Peter 1:6-8 

Page

The Making of The Beautiful

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?